


not as a lover but a messenger of death

by featherxquill



Category: Arc of a Scythe Series - Neal Shusterman
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Episodic Chapters, F/F, F/M, Temporary Character Death, see individual chapters for more specific content info
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22208389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherxquill/pseuds/featherxquill
Summary: "Scythe Curie," Citra asks, "are scythes allowed to have sex? How does that work? The way people look at us, the power that we have. How do you navigate that?"It's a complicated question, and it will take Marie a considerable walk down memory lane through the triumphs and tribulations of her past to answer it properly.
Relationships: Scythe Curie/OFCs, Scythe Curie/OMCs, Scythe Curie/Scythe Faraday (Arc of a Scythe)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Louise Glück's 'Vita Nova'. Many thanks to Emily for cheerleading me through this, and to Euny-Sloane and Shadaras for beta duties. You are all fab, and have made this fic that much better. 
> 
> I've included major content info on the main fic, but as this story is quite episodic, there are other warnings that only apply to specific chapters. Please skip to the endnotes to see chapter-specific content info.

Citra Terranova had been apprenticing under Marie for two months when she asked the question. It was the one thing Marie had never been able to ask Faraday when she’d been his apprentice, and apparently Citra hadn’t quite managed to leap that hurdle, either.

“Scythe Curie?”

They were sitting in Falling Water’s sunniest room when she spoke, Marie at the table writing in her journal and Citra studying nearby on the couch. The coffee table in front of Citra was spread with a variety of books from which she was making notes, and they had been working in companionable silence for some time before she broke it.

Marie glanced up. “Yes, dear?” she inquired, then was surprised to see her apprentice hesitate.

When she did speak, her question was uncharacteristically vague. “You know the commandments…?” It sounded like a beginning, but Citra trailed off.

Marie smiled. “I am familiar with them, yes,” she said, but it was only a gentle tease. “Did you have a specific question?”

Citra’s cheeks colored, but then she gave herself a little shake and appeared to steady herself. “Yes,” she said. “The ninth commandment. It forbids scythes from taking spouses or having children, but it doesn’t specifically call for _celibacy_. Presumably not all scythes are asexual, so can you, we - _they_ , I mean - are they allowed to…have sex?”

Marie's smile grew, though she did her best to restrain it. Citra looked so desperately awkward and adolescent about the question that it made Marie want to play with her a little, to ask _Why do you want to know?_ or _Are you planning a midnight rendezvous?_ But it would have been too cruel. Everything about Citra's neatly ordered study materials - from the carefully arranged sticky tabs that bookmarked information to the color-coded highlighters she used to organize her notes - spoke of someone who hungered to know things, whether or not she wanted to use the information.

Besides, it was a legitimate question, and a topic of conversation that could have saved Marie considerable humiliation had she had the courage to broach it when she was an apprentice. She decided to answer simply.

"Yes," she said, "we are. As long as we take precautions and avoid getting too emotionally attached."

Citra hesitated again. "Do scythes usually sleep _together_ , then? Or…?"

That question did give Marie pause. "It's been known to happen," she answered carefully, "but it's generally considered inadvisable. Too much room for muddying the waters." Her own past could best be described as a swamp, after all, and it occurred to her that Citra’s unique situation with Rowan Damisch could foster complicated emotions as well.

But Citra seemed to have other concerns, at least at present. Her brow furrowed. "Then who…?" she asked. "How does that work? The way people look at us, the power that we have. How do you navigate that?"

Marie smiled again, though there was less amusement in it this time. The expression felt somewhat wry on her face. "Well…" she began, and remembered.

**i.**

Susan Kohler had kept a steady boyfriend all through high school, but it took Scythe Marie Curie five years to make her sexual debut.

The world in which she graduated to scythedom was very different to the one that would come later. It was a world in which the young would quite literally never grow old, but the old could still feel the shadow of their mortality and did not trust the new paradigm. Obsolete politicians clung to power and evildoers lurked in corners, but the new generation were bold and unafraid, striving to be the change they wanted to see.

Or at least that was what they told themselves.

Marie had been far more involved in the affairs of the world in those days - _politically active_ , as it was called then, when it was still possible to be such a thing.

She remembered that she had been at a protest, could still recall the placards waving. ‘STOP GOVERNMENT INTERFERENCE’ they read; ‘LET THE THUNDERHEAD FIX CLIMATE CHANGE’. She had not been holding a sign herself, of course - the robe and the ring were enough to add weight to her presence - but she did support the cause, and she was particularly interested in learning the names of those responsible for lobbying against legislation that would give the Thunderhead greater power. Such people were a corrupt cancer, greedy and self-interested, and should rightly - or so she believed at the time - be culled from the population. 

The protest was peaceful but large, a march through the streets of Philadelphia that would end on the steps of city hall, where the state senator was meeting with several powerful energy brokers.

It was a hot day, as most days were at the time; the sun’s heat fueling the protestors’ argument as they wound their way through the city streets. Its powerful rays sliced down between the tall buildings and urged everyone onward, eager to move into the next patch of shade.

It started with the best intentions, the crowd determined but cheerful, glad to be among like-minded companions. Chanting filtered through their ranks in waves, passing from person to person, and although they were walking in close file, no one jostled or shoved. Marie found that she had a small bubble of space around her, typical when one was a scythe, and for a while, all proceeded as planned.

But as they approached the main thoroughfare that would lead to their final destination, their progress slowed, eventually stopping altogether. The crowd kept their patience for a time, but grew hot and irritable in the sun. “What’s the hold up?” Marie heard, echoing through the ranks; then the answer no one wanted to hear: “Peace officers are blocking the street.”

Peace officers. It was a polite euphemism if ever there was one. In the mortal age, Marie knew, they’d been known as the police force, a more accurate moniker. Later, when the world became more civilized, their power would be curtailed by the much more level-headed Nimbus agents, but in the early postmortal days, they were little more than thugs. The Thunderhead had removed the need for their number to have the mental capacity to actually investigate crimes, and revival centers meant they no longer had to be concerned with wrongful death charges, so there was nothing to curtail their use of force.

“They’re not letting us through,” came the message from the front.

“They say we’re here illegally, have no right to protest!”

“Bullshit!”

"It's a constitutional right!"

"They want their government when it suits _them_ , don't they? But not when it gives us a voice!"

“Fascists! Fascist pigs!”

The crowd began shifting its feet, jostling. Restlessness rippled through their ranks, tension rising like the air thickening before a thunderstorm.

Marie knew this feeling, and she knew she had to get herself out of it. If the situation turned violent, things would get ugly fast, and she was not prepared to let herself be trampled, but she did not want to glean anyone while defending herself, either.

There was only one thing for it. Marie raised her voice: “Let me through.”

Heads turned, faces irritated until they saw who had spoken, at which point the expressions turned to awe. Marie confirmed their unspoken question: “Let me through and I will deliver our message.” She left the nature of the delivery ambiguous.

The crowd parted for her; whispers rushing ahead cleared a path. Fingers reached out to brush reverently at her robe as she passed, filling her with a sense of her own importance. She soon reached the front of the march.

As expected, the peace officers were blocking the street, a line of helmeted figures armed with stun batons. The crowd hung back from them, creating several feet of no-man’s land.

Marie marched forward. “Step aside,” she demanded of the closest officer.

The man shook his head. “Can’t do that, Your Honor,” he said. “This protest is unlawful.”

Marie raised her chin. She was of a height with the man. “I am not bound by your _laws_. Let me through.”

The Grande Dame of Death could have stared the man down in a heartbeat, and Miss Massacre would have given him pause as well. But Marie was neither of those women at that point; she was barely more than a junior scythe, still a girl in many ways. She knew that gleaning the man for getting in her way was unseemly, and would probably be breaking the second commandment. The uncertainty must have shown in her eyes, because he didn’t budge.

“No.”

“No?” Marie felt her temper flare. “You dare…?” She reached for her blade, but a voice inside warned against arming herself in anger, and it must have made her hesitate, because the peace officer had time to grab her wrist.

“ _No,_ ” he said again, almost a snarl, and for one long moment they stood there, eyes locked.

Then a bottle hit the officer square in the side of the head.

“You can’t touch a scythe!” a voice behind her cried. A man launched himself from the edge of her vision, clearly intent on attack.

He never made it. One of the other peace officers stepped forward, baton crackling, and struck him in the chest. The man convulsed, then dropped, and before he hit the ground Marie had gathered herself, using the distraction he had provided to step into her attacker’s space and deliver a bokator blow to his windpipe. It sent him reeling backward, choking and spluttering, and her knife was in her hand a moment later.

It was all the crowd needed to erupt. Roaring, they surged forward, and the peace officers broke formation to meet them, swinging their weapons in sizzling arches. Marie whirled to avoid one, lashing out with her knife and dealing the officer holding it a slash that opened up his arm, but then she found herself through the line, abruptly free. The officers had turned their attention to easier targets.

It wouldn’t last. She could already see a second wave of peace officers approaching from the end of the street, this time armed with riot shields and guns. She would have to move quickly to get out of this.

Spotting a side-street, she headed toward it, only to stumble over the body of the man who had thrown the bottle. Glancing down at him, she saw his chest rise and fall - he was unconscious but not deadish. That wouldn’t last long, either. When the second wave of officers arrived, they wouldn’t hesitate to trample him, would maybe even shoot him out of spite. He’d be fine in a few days, Marie knew, but somehow she felt a sense of obligation to him - what a foolish thing, to try to put yourself between an armed peace officer and a scythe. Foolish and brave.

Marie didn’t think any more about it. Sheathing her knife, she grabbed the man under the arms and began to drag him towards the shelter of the alley. It was hard going - he was bigger than her, and a dead weight - but the alley wasn’t far away, and she managed to make it in time to be out of the way when the second wave of officers passed by. She propped the man up against the wall and drew her knife again as they passed, just in case, but now that she wasn’t a threat no one seemed inclined to harass her - it would have been highly unusual to encounter two people in one day who wanted to try their luck with a scythe.

Once she was sure that the immediate danger had passed, Marie turned her attention back to her charge. Bending over the man, she reached out to grip his chin and turn his face toward her, getting her first good look at him.

He was about her age, or looked it anyway, with thick dark hair and a jawline that probably made him handsome when it wasn’t slack and unconscious. He murmured groggily when she touched him, already recovering from the jolt, but no doubt dopey with the opiates his nanites had released for the pain.

Marie patted his cheek to rouse him. “Come on now. You need to wake up.”

His eyes cracked open. “Was I dead?” he asked, voice slurred.

Marie felt a wry smile twist her mouth. “You’ve got it backwards if you think you’re going to wake up looking at me when you die.”

His eyes opened further as she watched, taking on focus and recognition. “You,” he said, giving her a lopsided smile. “I could have done worse.” He gazed at her for a moment, then his eyes moved past her, scanning their surroundings. “Did we make it past the peace officers, then?”

“Yes,” said Marie, “but we’ve made a tactical retreat for now.”

His eyes closed again. “You should have gone on, let them kill me.” He looked like he was headed back toward unconsciousness, so Marie tapped his cheek again, harder this time.

“Nonsense,” she said. “You don’t question a scythe. Especially not when you’ve done something as monumentally stupid as trying to defend one.”

That seemed to hold his attention. “Not stupid,” he protested, sounding petulant.

“Really,” Marie said, smiling again. “Skilled with weapons, are you? Trained in hand-to-hand combat? Must be why you did such a good impression of a sack of potatoes.” She tugged on his shirt, peered down it to inspect the spot where the stunner had hit him. It looked red, skin raised into welts from the baton’s burn, but it wasn’t bad - his nanites had already started to heal him, and he’d be fine in an hour or two. As long as the riot didn’t come spilling down this alley, anyway. “We need to get away from here. Do you think you can walk?”

“Ugh,” he murmured. “Maybe. But not by myself.”

“I can help.” She offered him her hand and he struggled to his feet, gripping her fingers tightly and leaning hard against the wall behind him.

“Ooo. Wobbly,” he said.

“Lean on me,” Marie directed.

He did, and they made slow progress up the alley, Marie casting about at the windows and doors as they passed. Off the main thoroughfare, they were in a residential neighborhood - it shouldn’t be too hard to find someone to give them shelter.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Off the street, if I can find anyone who’s home.” She didn’t want to waste time knocking on doors, but it was hard to tell who might be in when everyone had air conditioners running and their blinds drawn against the heat either way. They hobbled along.

“Wait,” he said as they passed a cross-street. “I know where we are. I have a friend who lives around here. I fed his cat while he was on vacation. I know his door code. Go left.”

Marie followed his directions, and after a struggling ten-minute walk in which the man’s weight grew heavier on her shoulder, he directed her to stop outside the entrance to a townhouse. “Here,” he said, and Marie helped him up the stairs. They knocked, but there was no answer, so they let themselves in with the keypad.

“Hope my friend doesn’t mind,” the man said. Once they were inside, he moved immediately through a doorway that led to the living room, letting go of Marie and dropping onto the couch with a sigh. “Oh, that’s nice.”

Marie, free of her burden, rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck. “We should be safe here for a while. And I’m sure your friend will be fine. I can't imagine many people would begrudge the use of their home to help an injured friend, and even if they did, most people will bend over backwards to help a scythe.”

He looked a bit better now. The color had returned to his cheeks, and there was something of a twinkle in his eye when he replied: “Are they all stupid like me?”

Marie smiled. “Only some of them.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, and she’d been right - he really was good-looking when he wasn’t unconscious. “Which one are you, anyway?” he asked.

“Curie,” she replied.

His eyebrow quirked. “As in the radioactive lady?” 

Marie chuckled. “Yes, though I don’t recreate her work when I glean.”

“Good to know,” he said. “I’m Ashton - Ash.”

“Well, Ash, would you like a glass of water? I know I could use one.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said.

Marie found that the kitchen was the next room along. As she entered it, a grey tabby cat curled up by the doors to the back patio startled, peered at her suspiciously, then darted past her and bolted upstairs. She found two glasses in a cupboard and filled them from the faucet, then headed back to the living room.

As she entered, she found that Ash had his shirt half-unbuttoned and was inspecting the damage done by the stunner. It already looked better than it had before, and with the shirt undone Marie was able to see something she hadn’t previously - that he was tanned and muscular, almost chiseled. He may not be trained in hand-to-hand combat, but he certainly trained for _something_.

She realized she was staring when he looked up at her. “Not bad, huh?” he asked.

“I, er...” she stammered, and felt her cheeks flare hot.

He grinned at her. “My nanites,” he clarified. “They’ve done a pretty good job.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she agreed, seizing on the rescue, then tried to modulate her tone. “Yeah, they have.” She moved forward, holding out a glass to him. “I don’t think the cat likes me very much.” It wasn’t the smoothest recovery, but it would do.

“He doesn’t like anyone,” Ash said, nodding his thanks as he took the drink. “He pretended he loved me for a week, but it was only because I had food. The next time I visited, he completely ignored me.”

“Mercenary,” Marie said, settling onto the spare cushion beside him.

“Absolutely. But that’s alright. I know how these things work. I got a cuddle out of it at the time.”

“As long as you got something,” she said. Later, she would reflect on that conversational beat through a different lens, but at the time she simply moved on, glancing at the glass in her hand and lifting it for a drink. “Well, cheers to starting a riot, I suppose.”

He grinned again. “Cheers.”

Marie couldn’t help but notice, as she took her drink, that he’d made no move to re-button his shirt.

“So,” Ash said, laying his glass down on the coffee table in front of them, “do you go to protests often? I didn’t know scythes were allowed to be political.”

“We can do almost anything we like,” Marie said, “as long as we don’t show too much bias in our gleaning.”

“Did you say you were going to deliver the protesters’ message?” he asked.

“I did.”

“And is that what you meant? Gleaning the senator?”

Marie shook her head. “Not the senator, no - I’m not that bold - but probably one of the lobbyists.”

“Wouldn’t that show bias?” he asked.

Marie rolled a shoulder. “A little,” she said, “but not too much if I only do it once. I’m not worried.”

Ash’s smile was sly. “Like playing with fire, do you?” His tone was distinctly flirtatious, and it gave Marie a thrill. It had been a while since anyone flirted with her.

She responded in kind. “Always. But what about you? Do you always throw yourself at armed peace officers to meet women?”

He laughed. “Only the cutest ones.”

Marie arched an eyebrow. “Lucky I chose to drag you off the street, then.”

“I do like to think of myself as a lucky guy,” he said.

Marie took another sip of her water, then laid her glass on the table. “Seriously, though,” she said, “what brought you to the protest today? Are you a student, a nature lover, or just a generally concerned citizen?”

“All of the above,” Ash said.

He was a student at Jefferson, it turned out, enrolled on an athletic scholarship for rowing. He told her about his early morning training sessions and how it was hotter now than it had ever been before, how he saw dead wildlife almost daily now. “And I’ve made it onto the team for nationals before, and I’m hoping one day I might even manage the Olympics. So you could definitely say I have a vested interest in our lakes not boiling, but I also just think it might be good for the world if we don’t all fry, you know?”

“Mhm,” Marie agreed. “All these short-sighted idiots with Universal Credit signs in their eyes.”

“It was good to see how many people care, today,” he said. “And to know there’s someone willing to pick them off one by one, of course.” He smiled.

“One must have _goals_ ,” she said, mock-noble. “But the Olympics - that’s a pretty admirable goal, too.”

She meant it. While she knew that a lot of things had changed since the mortal age - people could get fit now simply by adjusting their nanites, after all - the Olympic Games still had a certain prestige. Unlike most professional sports these days, the Olympic committee imposed strict restrictions on nanite-enhancement, so people who wanted to participate had to train and build their fitness the old-fashioned way. It required a level of passion and commitment that was vanishing in their modern world, so winning an Olympic medal was still an impressive feat, even if the athletes were no longer singular examples of human fitness.

“I know it’s pointless,” Ash said, “but I figure most everything is pointless these days, when it comes down to it, so I might as well go big.” He rolled his shoulders, and Marie watched his chest muscles ripple with the motion.

“It’s nearly gone now,” she said.

“What is?”

“Your burn.” Her hand lifted, seemingly of its own volition, reaching for him and not catching herself until it was far too late, until her fingers were within an inch of making contact with his chest. When she realized, she froze, hand hovering awkwardly, and Ash, having glanced down when she spoke, watched it for a moment before he looked up at her again.

He was smiling. “You can touch me, if you like.”

It seemed pointless to deny that she wanted to, so Marie did, trailing a tentative finger over what remained of his burn. “Does it hurt?” she asked. It was barely a graze now.

“Not at all,” he whispered. “It's a bit sensitive, maybe, but it feels nice. Your hands are soft.”

Marie laid the rest of her fingers down, traced the curve of one pectoral with her thumb. When she met his eyes again, he was gazing back at her steadily, still wearing that smile.

“How are you so confident?” Marie asked wonderingly. Her palm flattened against his chest - she couldn’t feel an elevated heart rate at all. “Ever since I took the robe and the ring, most regular people are terrified of me.”

“Well,” Ash said, “I think you showed your hand when you rescued me. But you’re human, aren’t you? You seem pretty human to me.”

Marie let her hand fall away, though it lingered for a moment longer than it needed to. “Most people don’t see me that way.”

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Five years.”

He blinked, took a moment to respond. “Sounds lonely,” he said.

“Yes,” Marie admitted, “sometimes it is.”

Her hand had fallen onto the couch between them. He reached for it, curling his fingers around her wrist and stroking his thumb over the inside.

“I could help with that, you know,” he whispered. 

Marie looked at him and she felt her breath grow tight in her chest, was suddenly acutely aware of every inch of her body. Her fingers tingled; she felt an electric shimmer through her scalp. Warmth suffused her belly, too, an animal pulse radiating out from her core.

She was a twenty-four-year-old woman who hadn’t had sex in more than six years. He was an extremely attractive man offering himself up to her on a borrowed couch on a summer afternoon. She lived a life that meant she didn’t get to have a boyfriend, but he was here, and he was offering, and he saw her as a woman, not a role.

Marie accepted his invitation.

They came together right there on the couch, her robe sliding down over her shoulders and falling to the floor with a metallic thud that made him laugh, his shirt and trousers shed in wriggled haste. There was kissing, and her hips straddling his, and the glorious friction of their bodies moving against each other. She gripped his shoulders, reveling in his amazing musculature, and when he’d divested her of her underdress, his mouth proved to be talented at more than just smooth talking.

It was wonderful - fun and messy and tender all at once. When she freed his erection from his shorts he quipped “You know it’s all-natural,” and when he struggled to unclip her bra she teased him about his fumbling fingers, which inspired him to prove just how dextrous he could be. She stroked him until he was desperate for her, whispering pleas against her throat, and when she finally took him inside her, he held her fast with his eyes as well as his hands, confirming her humanity with fingers that gripped her hips and a gaze that stripped her bare.

She clung to him afterward, face nuzzled against the curve of his throat, just enjoying the warmth that lingered between them. She sighed against him and he stroked her hair, and for a time neither of them moved, holding onto the moment for as long as they could.

But Marie was all too aware that their borrowed privacy could be disrupted at any moment, that they couldn’t lounge around and indulge in the full glory of a one-night stand. Eventually, she lifted her head.

“I should probably go before your friend gets home,” she said, giving him a lazy smile. “I'm not sure he'd buy the story about your injury if he walked in and found us like this, and I don’t know whether people’s generosity towards scythes extends to finding one naked on your couch.”

“Hm, probably not,” Ash replied, but his fingers were twining in the ends of her hair, and he made no move to stop.

“Thank you for a lovely afternoon,” she said, and kissed the end of his nose. In another life, perhaps it could have been more than an afternoon, and for a moment she felt a pang of regret that she'd chosen this solitary path. 

But chosen she had, and when they slipped apart, it felt natural. Her body was warm and loose as she gathered up her clothes, pleasantly stretched and tender. She donned her underclothes and refastened her robe, checked her pockets to make sure that none of her weapons had rolled away. As she was slipping her shoes back on, she looked at him again.

“Maybe we'll run into each other at a protest again sometime,” she said. “I’ll make sure I send your friend a thank you package for his hospitality.” That would be easy enough to do - most shopkeepers would send a gift on a scythe’s behalf when asked.

But Ash was wearing a strange expression now, eyebrows furrowed in confusion or concern. “Wait,” he said, “aren’t you going to grant me immunity?”

“What?” Marie asked, her warm glow cooling in a heartbeat. “I didn’t…” But things were rapidly becoming clear.

Ash was unfazed by her response. “Well, that’s how this works, isn’t it? I give you what you want, and you grant me immunity?”

“I didn’t…” Marie tried again, but she couldn’t find the words.

She replayed it again, their conversation, _if you like_ and _I could help_. Was that what he’d been saying all along?

Marie felt dirty. She felt foolish and naive and desperately uncertain, couldn’t figure out whether she’d been manipulated or misread the subtext. She’d thought he’d actually wanted her, seen past her ring, but…

But if that was what he thought they’d been saying, what kind of monster would she be to not pay up? She’d been wearing her ring the whole time; if he’d been trying to trick her, he could have kissed it half a dozen times while they were entangled and claimed it an accident.

Marie stepped forward, stomach twisting. She held out her hand to him, but had to look away as he kissed it, biting her lip and swallowing hard. As soon as he was done, she snatched her hand away.

“You should be clearer about what you expect,” she said, speaking to the wall. Her voice was thick, and she hurried away before he could respond.

As she stepped out the door and glanced back to pull it closed behind her, she caught sight of the cat sitting on the stairs. The tiny predator was watching her, face impassive. Its eyes gleamed with the same diamond-shine as her ring. 

_Yes,_ she thought, _you’re the one who truly understands me, aren’t you?_

She gleaned the lobbyist before dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content info for this chapter: Canon-typical violence, including riot/police violence. This chapter is more accurately rated M.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content info for this chapter: Explicit sexual content, rough play. See end notes for more info.  
> 

**ii.**

By the time she tried again, Marie had performed the gleanings that made her famous.

“Miss Massacre”, the news media called her, praising her with breathless awe or condemning her with fiery vitriol. It had been just over a month since her “DC job”, as she liked to think of it, and she had seen the footage of herself gleaning the president half a hundred times since then. It was a strange experience, given that there was usually no official footage of scythes at work. But since the cameras had already been running for the State of the Union address when she’d swooped in, the media could hardly be blamed for capturing it.

And she did look good. The cameras had captured her face, fierce and implacable, her robe billowing dramatically as she stepped through the doors. She could be heard, when the reports included sound, but it was only to say “Mr President, you have been selected for gleaning.” It had given her a thrill, saying that, but she hadn’t let herself get carried away. She had been well aware at the time that she would likely be disciplined for her actions, so she’d kept to herself the long-winded oratory about feeble-minded politicians clinging to power and dooming the world with their inaction, and spoken with her blade instead. It had been quick but brutal, the President’s throat slashed from ear to ear, and while the rest of his cabinet had still been sitting there frozen in shock, she’d turned on them as well.

In total, Marie had gleaned eighteen people that day - every single one in the line of presidential succession. It had worked, too, inspiring other scythes to glean their state senators and local representatives, and the government had quickly disbanded in fear. Now, with control handed over to the Thunderhead, problems were actually being addressed, and the world could move forward.

It had started already. Not five minutes ago, sitting in the dining room of the hotel she was staying in, she had watched the silent screen on the wall flash animated maps of the North American continent with its new regional borders replacing state lines. Under the guidance of the Thunderhead, they were finally falling into line with PanAsia and EuroScandia, which would benefit all citizens and provide an example for the rest of the world. Of course, unable to resist, the news broadcast had shown the footage of ‘what made it all possible’ one more time, and Marie had sliced into her steak dinner as the immortalized version of her got to work above her head.

And she wasn’t the only one watching, it seemed.

A server appeared at Marie’s table carrying a tray. “Excuse me, Your Honor. This was ordered for you, courtesy of the customer over at the table by the fish tank. May I serve it to you?” The man displayed the item, which was a cocktail, served in a champagne saucer and frothy on top. The drink itself was cloudy and pale purple, and it had been garnished with a sprig of fresh lavender.

Marie couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, alright then,” she said. She didn’t usually imbibe in public, but she couldn’t say no to something so perfectly tailored for her.

The server laid the glass down and departed, and Marie finished her meal without so much as touching it. When she was done, however, she slid the glass toward her, then glanced across the room in the direction of the fish tank.

There was a woman watching her. She had a heart-shaped face and strawberry-blonde curls, and her eyes fairly sparkled when they met Marie’s. She lifted her glass, which contained the same drink she’d ordered for Marie, and smiled as she took a sip.

Marie did the same. The drink was sharp and tart, clearly gin-based, but the egg-white froth on top was sweet, and it gave the whole thing a texture that was as smooth as a skillfully-wielded blade. Giving a nod of approval, she sat back in her seat, cradling the glass, then tilted her chin back in invitation.

The woman approached.

“Is this a personality analysis,” Marie asked as the woman reached her table, “or did it just look pretty?”

The woman smiled. “I wouldn’t presume to know you,” she said, “but if it’s flattering, you can take it as clairvoyance.”

“Mm,” Marie said, taking another sip. “I just might.” She gestured to the empty seat in her booth, and the woman slid in.

“What’s your name?” Marie asked.

“Oriana,” she said, “and I’m delighted to meet you, Scythe Curie.”

“You look like the kind of person I might let call me Marie.”

Oriana’s cheeks turned rosy, but she didn’t look away. She didn’t play at bashful, just trailed a finger around the edge of her glass and said, “That would be an honor, Your Honor.”

Marie liked her already. “Just so you know,” she said, “I don’t exchange immunity for company, so if that’s what you’re after, I’ll thank you for the drink but send you on your way.”

“Why would that be what I’m after?” Oriana asked. “You’re the most famous and dangerous woman in the country right now. If I wanted immunity, I’d try a lamb, not a lion.”

“Good.” Marie smiled, studying the woman now that was out of the way. She was young - younger than Marie, anyway - and it was clearly not manufactured. Marie had become good at spotting the signs of turning, and Oriana had none of that wisdom or weariness in her gaze. Instead, she was sparkling bright, all shiny hair and carefree smile. She was pretty, too, and while Marie had never actively pursued encounters with women before, she was more than a little intrigued by this one. “Do you always flirt with danger?” she asked.

“I’ve been known to,” Oriana said. “I had a bit of an addiction to neurotoxins when I was younger, and now I’m a mixologist. I do gigs at the kind of clubs that people go to when they want to roll the dice on whether they stay awake for thirty-six hours or wake up in a revival clinic.”

Marie arched a brow and took another sip of her drink. “I do hope they didn’t let you behind the bar tonight.”

Oriana laughed. “Not a chance,” she said. “Besides, it’s no fun if it’s not consensual.”

Marie’s expression turned wry. “I wouldn’t know much about that,” she said. “Not where death is concerned, at least.”

“What?” Oriana asked, brows furrowing. “Of course you do. Maybe not _in the moment_ , but everyone consents to scythes existing because we know it’s the price we pay for immortality. That’s a contract. What you do is _real_. It’s important and necessary - and pretty spectacular, if the way you dealt with those politicians is anything to go by.”

“That was something of a once in a lifetime gleaning,” Marie said.

“Still,” Oriana replied. “I liked watching you.”

Marie recognized that she was having her ego stroked, but she didn’t mind. She'd had a month of listening to herself being discussed as a marvel or a monster, a figure larger than life, but the way Oriana was looking at her was something else entirely. There was definitely something real about the way she leaned in when Marie spoke, the way her fingers splayed eagerly against the table, close enough for Marie to touch if she wanted to. She was telegraphing attraction loud and clear, and did it matter if the woman she was drawn to was mostly myth? Being notorious held its own appeal, Marie was finding, far more alluring than the impossible desire to be seen as human. 

“I’m glad I made such a powerful impression on you,” Marie said.

Oriana sipped her drink. “I do wonder, though - it must make it hard to relate to people. How do you deal with that?”

“Well,” Marie said, eyeing the woman, “I like to let others make the first move, and I’ve come to appreciate directness.”

Her statement hung in the air between them for a long moment. Oriana finished her drink, set it down, toyed with the stem of her glass. Then she glanced up at Marie again from beneath her eyelashes, gaze smoldering.

“In that case,” she said, “how would you like to see my room?”

* * *

Almost as soon as they were in the door, Oriana’s fingers caught Marie’s wrist, tugging her forward and tangling her other hand into Marie’s hair. When she kissed Marie, her lips were soft, but her mouth was hungry. She pulled Marie in and Marie let her, took hold of her waist and gave herself up to this thing that was all fire and exhilaration, both familiar and new to her. 

When they broke apart they were both breathless, hanging against each other. Oriana nipped Marie’s lip, and Marie smiled. “You’ve done this before,” she whispered.

“Not with a scythe,” Oriana replied. “And you?”

“Not with a woman,” Marie admitted.

Oriana grinned. “Oh, I am going to _enjoy_ treating you.” She made to pull Marie against her, hand slipping around Marie’s waist, but almost immediately the knife in Marie’s robe dug into both of them, and she had to step back.

“I’ll need a minute,” Marie said.

Oriana eyed her hungrily. “Take your time,” she said.

There was a table nearby. Marie moved toward it, reaching into her robe and removing the dagger from her pocket. She laid it down, then reached into the other side, and soon there were three tri-blade shuriken, a pistol and a push knife on the table as well. After a moment’s consideration, Marie worked the ring off her finger and set it beside them. She did believe Oriana's intentions, but removing temptation still wouldn't hurt. 

Turning back to Oriana, she found the woman’s eyes wide, staring at the arsenal. Her pupils were dilated with what could have been either fear or arousal, or both. “Holy shit,” she whispered, mouth twisted up in awe.

“I’m all yours now,” Marie murmured. That got Oriana’s attention back.

“I am so turned on right now,” she breathed, making eye contact with Marie again. “Fucking hell.” She closed the distance between them.

This time, their bodies fit perfectly together. Oriana was soft when she pulled Marie against her, but her kiss was even hungrier than before. Afterward, she glanced down at the table beside them, reaching out a hand toward the gold-hilted dagger.

“Was that the one you used to...?” she asked, breathless from the kiss or the thought - Marie couldn’t quite tell which.

It was hardly where she wanted Oriana’s focus to be. “Yes,” she answered, then reached up and took hold of Oriana’s chin, turning her face to look her in the eye. “But a knife is nothing without the hand that wields it. The hand is what’s important.” To emphasize her point, she slid said hand down to curl around Oriana’s throat, applying the barest hint of pressure. Then she moved on, trailing her fingers over clavicle and sternum, tracing the v-neck of Oriana’s top. “Wouldn’t you agree?” Marie’s smile felt positively predatory, and Oriana had gone completely still, heart pounding in a chest that was holding her breath in. Marie felt a little thrill, quirked an eyebrow.

When she let it out, Oriana’s breath rattled. She swallowed visibly. Her “ _Yes_ ” was a quaking whimper.

“Then maybe we should head this way.” Marie stepped back toward the bed.

It was all that was needed for Oriana to refocus. Giving her shoulders a shake, she shed her jacket and tossed it over a chair, then reached for Marie again.

“You,” she whispered, tugging Marie close, “you are…” Her lips found Marie’s neck, nuzzling in and kissing her with a hot open mouth. Her hand slipped inside Marie’s robe, caressing her hip through the silky fabric of her underdress, then sliding up to thumb open the robe’s fastenings and find the shape of her breast. Marie let out a little whimper of her own when Oriana’s thumb grazed her nipple.

Oriana nipped Marie’s earlobe, then lifted her head. Her knuckles made tiny tents in Marie’s robe as her fingers kneaded and stroked. “That’s quite a thing,” she whispered, “to be under a scythe’s robe. Will you leave it on for a while?”

Marie smiled. “Only if you make it _worth_ my while.”

“Oh,” Oriana said, punctuating her words with a twist of the nipple, “I can do that.” She backed Marie right up to the edge of the bed, then slipped a hand onto her shoulder and urged her down. 

Marie went. Her robe pooled around her and Oriana seemed to like that, dropping to her knees and burying her hands in the folds of it. She stroked Marie through the fabric, caressing her thighs and bunching the material in her fists, inching it slowly upward. Marie reached out to stroke her cheek, caught one of those bouncy curls between her fingers and smoothed it straight, but she didn’t have much access in this position, so could do little more.

Oriana leaned into the touch, turning her head to press a kiss against Marie’s palm. She seemed to read Marie’s mind. “You’ll have your turn,” she said, “but for now, let me...” Having raised Marie’s skirts now almost to her knees, she slid her fingers beneath the hem and onto Marie’s skin.

Her touch was like feathers, or fire, blazing a trail of warm tingling wherever she traced her fingers. Marie’s knees parted, her calves twitched, her own hands fisted in the folds of her skirt and pulled it even higher.

“Hm,” Oriana murmured, amused, when she caught sight of Marie’s underwear. “Lavender all the way down, huh? I like your commitment.” But it didn’t stop her from peeling them off.

Oriana's attention became even more focused once she had Marie bared, parting Marie’s thighs and crawling between them. She stroked the backs of Marie’s knees, kissed the insides of them, lifted her gaze to meet Marie’s as her mouth slowly ascended. Marie could see the smile on her mouth as Oriana moved, could feel her own cheeks heating up. She rolled her shoulders and her robe hung heavy on them, shifted her hips and felt the underdress slippery beneath her. They were both still fully clothed and yet somehow this was still the hottest thing she’d ever seen, this woman kneeling before her with her confident eyes and her eager desire. She kissed her way right up to the apex of Marie’s thigh, tongue lathing over sensitive skin, then pulled back, switching her focus to Marie’s other leg and lavishing it with similar attention.

Marie’s cunt throbbed. Her thighs trembled. Her hips rolled of their own accord and she could feel how wet she was, slick and hot. “ _Please,_ ” she whispered, aching with it.

Oriana grinned. “Oh, I like that. Bet you don’t have to say that very often.”

She obliged, but instead of lowering her head, she snaked an arm right around Marie’s back, planting a hand in the small of it and tugging Marie forward onto her mouth.

Marie grabbed hold of the edge of the bed. Her first instinct was to melt, to fall back onto the covers and just give herself away to sensation, but Oriana’s hand at her back made that impossible, so instead she fisted her hands in the bedcovers, pressed her hips forward, and hung on.

Oriana’s mouth was amazing, hot and hungry. She covered Marie with it, jaw working, feeling out Marie’s shape with her tongue and spreading her open. Marie’s breath came out in sighs and whimpers, her throat arched. Her blood felt as heavy as her robe, a weighty nuisance powering irrelevant extremities; nothing existed except the bright sensation of her cunt.

But she didn't want to miss a moment of this. Her head righted itself and she could see everything, her trembling thighs and Oriana’s head between them, curls bobbing as her mouth devoured. As Marie watched, Oriana’s gaze lifted, and it was smiling and predatory as she nuzzled in deeper and pushed her tongue inside Marie.

This was better than anything Marie had felt before in her _life_. She wanted to say so, but she didn’t have the words, couldn’t make her voice do anything but moan. She used her hand instead, releasing one from the bedcovers and tangling it in Oriana’s hair, gripping tight to her curls and urging her on.

There was nothing more she could do. She lost conscious control of her body after that. She could feel her hips moving, hungrily pushing herself onto Oriana’s mouth, could feel her chest heaving as she sucked breath into too-tight lungs. Her legs, she knew, must have been doing _something_ , because Oriana’s free hand clamped down on her thigh and bent it back further, but absolutely none of it was at Marie’s direction. She’d become a passenger only, carried away by the storm of her own nerve endings, an electrical tempest she could only submit to.

And surrender she did, throwing her head back and letting the charge build, feeling it pulse and burn and crackle. A jolt ran up her spine and arched her back; her skin felt too tight. Her fingers in Oriana’s hair jerked and contracted, she was a puppet and Oriana was tangling up her strings. The storm grew, pressure built, wires crossing and power arcing. And just when it felt like it was too much to bear, Oriana shifted, her lips closing around Marie’s clit and sucking gently.

It was the feather that brought the whole house down. Crying out, Marie shattered, fingers tugging on Oriana’s hair as she jerked against her mouth, holding on tight and riding the lightning until there was nothing left of her but twitching sparks.

When she came back to herself, Marie found that she was slumped forward, barely holding herself upright with one wobbly arm. Her robe had fallen with her and hung haphazardly around both of them, slouching off Marie’s shoulder and pinned against her thigh by Oriana’s head, which was resting there in self-satisfied repose. Marie’s fingers were still sunk in her hair, and to test her dexterity she withdrew them, easing through the tangle she had made and smoothing out one of the curls.

That brought Oriana back to life, eyes swiveling up to meet Marie’s. “That’s a lost cause,” she murmured, smiling with her glistening mouth. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

“I got a bit carried away,” Marie replied, but didn’t apologize. “That was…” She sighed, and her smile said it all.

Oriana’s smile widened. “It was,” she agreed. “You’re even more magnificent when you come than you are when you’re gleaning presidents.”

Marie laughed. “Speaking of, I believe you said something about me getting a turn?” She reached out a hand to help Oriana up.

Oriana joined her on the bed. Marie was happy to finally shed the weight of her robe when Oriana pushed it off her shoulders, and she wasted no time tugging off Oriana’s top, determined to take a more active role now that she could. She let herself be divested of her underdress, then reached for Oriana’s belt, working the buckle undone to get at the waistband of her jeans. Tugging them down, she pulled them off with Oriana’s help, then looked at her, all spread out on her back in a black bra, as well as underwear that was patterned with cartoon watermelons. The sight made Marie smile.

Oriana noticed. “If I’d known how my night would end,” she said, “I might have worn a matching set.”

“You’re not the first person to say that to me, you know,” Marie said, reaching behind herself to unclip her own bra. “I once met a woman who begged me to let her buy some new underwear before I gleaned her.”

Oriana grinned. “Did you?” she asked.

Marie dropped her bra over the side of the bed. “Of course,” she replied, throwing her leg over Oriana to straddle her hips. “I might be a harbinger of death, but I’m not a monster.” She trailed a finger over Oriana’s chest. “She went to the morgue perfectly pristine, except for right about...here.” She drew a line underneath Oriana’s left breast, right between her ribs.

Oriana’s next breath was very sharp and very rattled. “Okay,” she whispered, reaching up to curl a hand around Marie’s hip, “I’m going to need you to fuck me now, or I might just combust.”

Marie grinned. “Alright then,” she said, and managed to make it sound like _you asked for it_. Leaning forward, she cupped the back of Oriana’s neck, claiming her mouth with another kiss, then shifted down to go exploring.

And what wonderful uncharted territory she was. Oriana’s throat smelled of mangoes and it quivered under Marie’s kiss; her body pressed soft and warm against Marie’s more angular frame. Marie kissed her way across Oriana’s chest, stroked her sides, slipped a hand beneath her back to unclip her bra, then tugged it off. Oriana’s breasts, when they were revealed, were lovely - fuller than Marie’s and already flushed with heat, heaving with her quickening breath. Marie cupped them, enjoying the way they filled her palms, squeezing and stroking before she lowered her head to suck a nipple into her mouth.

Oriana responded beautifully, arching into Marie’s touch. One of her hands fisted in the bedcovers and the other found Marie’s shoulder, encouraging her with a shaky caress. Her voice was similarly urgent, all whimpering need, and it spurred Marie on. She shifted sides, releasing one nipple and going for the other, teasing it with her tongue before she closed her lips around it. While her mouth was occupied, she allowed her hand to drift lower, skating over Oriana’s abdomen; it quivered under her touch. Over her little belly, and then Marie’s fingers were tracing the waistband of Oriana’s knickers, feeling along their lacy edge before she slipped her fingertips beneath.

Marie was in less familiar waters now, but she found that she was able to navigate well enough - she knew what felt good for her, after all, so it wasn’t too much of a stretch to assume those things would work for Oriana too. Sliding her hand down, she cupped Oriana’s mound, then curled a finger and slipped it into her slick heat, spreading her open and feeling out her wet. Lifting her head, she took in the sight of Oriana’s face again, her cheeks rosy and her mouth open, lips moving silently.

“Is that good?” Marie asked. She tried to sound playful but the question came out honest instead, vulnerable in a way she didn’t usually feel. Right at that moment, she could see at least thirteen different ways she could kill Oriana, but pleasing her was another matter entirely.

But Oriana wasn’t complaining. She murmured her approval and arched her hips to press herself into Marie’s hand. “So good,” she whispered, “keep going.”

Marie did, watching Oriana’s face as she worked, feeling the way her thighs twitched and her hips moved. She stroked her fingers back and forth through Oriana’s heat, ground the heel of her palm against her, watched the way every action made her mouth twist and her cheeks color that little bit more. And when she slipped a finger inside her, Oriana’s expression changed again, teeth catching her lip and a moan escaping her throat, shoulders arching into the bed as though her whole body was straining to feel it.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Marie whispered, “you’re so beautiful.”

It was true. Marie added a second finger and realized that she wasn’t breathing, that she was completely enraptured, hanging on every moment to see how Oriana would respond. Once she realized, she forced herself to inhale, pressed in deeper on the exhale, creating a slow, languid rhythm that put all of Oriana’s responses on full display.

But maybe it was a little too slow. She realized too late that she had jumped the gun, that the elastic of Oriana’s underwear was restricting the movement of her wrist, preventing her from going any faster. They seemed to reach an impasse.

Marie’s hand stilled. “I need to get your underwear off, don’t I?” she asked.

Oriana smiled, then gave a shaky nod. “Please,” she said.

Withdrawing her hand, Marie shifted, pulling the underwear down then working it over Oriana’s hips. Once it was off, however, Marie found herself at a loss. Should they just pick up where they left off, or should she try something different? There was less of a script when one was having sex with another woman, she was realizing.

She decided to ask. Catching Oriana’s knees, she maneuvered herself inside them again, trailing her fingertips over Oriana’s thighs and taking a good look at her bare cunt, which was glistening and flushed pink with need. Marie could definitely put her mouth there, if that was what Oriana wanted.

She looked up at her. “Do you want more of my fingers,” she asked, “or should I use my tongue? Or...well, you’ll have to help me be more creative, if you have other ideas.”

Oriana’s chest heaved. She bit her lip. Her hair had mussed up into a frizzy halo. “Anything?” she asked.

“Anything,” Marie answered. After the climax Oriana had given her, and the false start, Marie wanted to make sure she finished this right.

Oriana inclined her chin. “Come up here,” she said. “Use your knee, and hold me down. I wanna rub myself all over you.”

Marie felt a guttural growl escape her lips. It set a fire in her belly, that request, and she launched herself forward, catching Oriana’s wrists with ease. Bokator wasn’t just about throwing punches, after all. She gazed down at Oriana, who seemed a little surprised by how fast she’d moved, and let herself smile, smug and predatory. “I’ll have you know,” she murmured, “that I can restrain a man twice my size without breaking a sweat, so you…” She bumped Oriana’s legs apart and settled her knee against the covers, hitching it forward so her thigh pressed right into Oriana’s slick heat. “You don’t pose much challenge at all.” Sliding Oriana’s arms upward, Marie pinned them above her head with one hand, freeing up the other to wander over her collarbones and down to toy with a nipple. “Is this about what you had in mind?”

There it was again, that rattly breath. Oriana looked almost sick with need. “ _Yes,_ ” she whispered. “ _Fuck._ ”

Marie rocked forward on her knee.

It took a little time, finding a rhythm, but soon they did, Marie grinding into Oriana and Oriana planting a heel in the bedcovers and pushing back. Heat grew quickly between them, Marie’s breath coming in heavy gusts and Oriana’s face twisting into raptures, her back arching, wrists straining against Marie’s grip. Marie tightened her hold, twisted Oriana’s nipple, felt a feral smile on her face and hoped she looked like a demon, looked like everything Oriana needed her to be. It was an easy role to warm to with her thigh slippery with Oriana’s wet, with her vision full of the woman’s flushed, heaving body. She felt fierce and powerful as she pushed Oriana towards oblivion.

But Oriana had one more request. “Choke me,” she rasped, voice little more than a breath.

“What?” Marie asked, faltering for a moment. She wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

Oriana repeated herself. “ _Choke me,_ ” she hissed. “ _I’m so close. Please._ ”

It gave Marie pause. It was one thing to play at violence, but quite another to actually commit a dangerous act at such an intimate moment. But she’d said _anything_ , hadn’t she? Clearly, Oriana wanted the thrill.

Marie wrapped her fingers around Oriana’s neck.

She had to shift her weight, but she kept moving, driving her knee even harder into the bed as she thrust against Oriana, leaning down to apply pressure to her throat. It cut off sound, but Marie could feel the blood pounding beneath Oriana’s skin, could see her eyes half-closed in blissful abandon. This too felt powerful, and Marie squeezed as she rocked, holding Oriana’s life as she urged her on. She was trembling now, thighs shaking, felt molten against Marie’s knee. Marie pushed her further, one, two, three more thrusts with her hand held hard against Oriana’s throat, then, when she thought the time was right, she released her grip, and Oriana gave a great heaving gasp and clamped her thighs around Marie’s leg, trembling and shaking as she came.

She kept gasping after, shallow and weak, and Marie didn’t realize what was happening until a moment too late, when Oriana was shuddering in the throes of cardiac arrest. Marie scrambled off her in a desperate panic, her only thought being that maybe if they weren’t in contact when she died, the ambudrone would come. But it was too late. Before she managed to fully disentangle herself from their embrace, the light had left Oriana’s eyes, and Marie knelt beside her, felt her own heart pounding dangerously, had to steady herself against the bedcovers.

Then Oriana gasped, jerking upright, chest heaving. Her nanites had restarted her heart. She hung in the air for a few moments, catching her breath, then flopped back down onto the covers, catching the look on Marie’s face and laughing. “That,” she said, still panting, “was incredible.” She reached for Marie, who allowed herself to be pulled down and kissed. “You’re amazing,” Oriana whispered against her lips.

Marie wasn’t quite back yet. “I thought I’d killed you,” she said.

“I know.” Oriana smirked, rolling toward Marie and curling a leg around her. “Your face. Still, there would be worse ways to go.”

Oriana seemed completely cavalier about the whole thing, and now that the moment had passed, Marie began to see that her panic had probably been overblown. Of course Oriana’s nanites had restarted her heart, and even if they’d failed, Marie could have taken her to a revival center and made up some story about putting the woman in a bokator hold to prevent her from interfering with a gleaning. There’d never been any real danger. But when Marie reached up to touch Oriana’s cheek, she found that her hands were still shaking.

“Adrenaline,” Oriana said, kissing Marie’s fingers. “It’s quite a thing, isn’t it?”

And as Marie’s shock faded it turned into something like afterglow, a heavy warmth that suffused her, tinged with that wicked sense of power she’d felt as she held Oriana down. It was a potent feeling.

“Quite a thing,” she agreed, as they lay there naked and tangled.

* * *

It wasn’t until two days later, while she was performing her next gleaning, that Marie realized the full impact that the night with Oriana had had on her. As she pushed her blade into the man’s chest, she felt a kick inside, a distinctly sexual thrill, and as she withdrew the knife she felt suddenly ill, terrified of herself and what she was becoming.

This was not the kind of scythe she wanted to be. When she arrived home that day she threw off her weapons and took up her journal. She re-read the commandments and didn’t eat for two days, penning long, furious journal entries to purge herself of her toxin.

 _We must be aware at all times of our commitment to humanity,_ she wrote. _We must avoid dangerous paths_.

They were not among her more popular writings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra content info: Choking, breath play, temporary character death during sex.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter-specific content info.

**iii.**

Acquiring Falling Water was the best decision Marie had ever made.

When she’d first decided to find herself a residence that would remove her from the spotlight, Marie hadn’t been entirely sure what she was looking for. She’d scoured the backbrain for months looking at real estate listings, visited vacant homes all across MidMerica, and none of them were quite what she needed. They were either too grand - _as befitting a woman of your acclaim, Your Honor_ \- and merely felt like trading one kind of indulgence for another, or they were too spartan, and felt like a punishment rather than a willing change. Some were so rural that living in them would make it seem like she was withdrawing from the world completely, and others left her far too exposed. It was a difficult balance to reach and a long, frustrating search.

And then Falling Water fell right in her lap.

She’d just viewed another disappointing property and was heading to look at another, sliding into a publicar and mindlessly rattling off her destination.

“There is a chance of electrical storm and loss of navigation services along your route,” said the automated voice, but publicars were always saying things like that. Without the Thunderhead’s input, they wouldn’t tell you what the percentage chance was, just that there was one, which you could look up if you were so inclined.

Marie wasn’t. “Just drive,” she growled at the machine, and it obediently departed.

It took about half an hour for the first spots of rain to hit. Marie welcomed the downpour at first, relishing the sound it made against the roof of the car and watching the lightning rods on the nearby hills light up with color. They were certainly one of the Thunderhead’s more spectacular means of collecting energy, and Marie was enjoying the show until the car’s navigation system began to go haywire.

“Re-routing,” it said. “Interference detected. Re-routing to outside interference zone.”

“Oh, for founder’s sake,” Marie muttered, grabbing hold of the safety handle as the car took a sharp right turn off the highway. “Where are we going?”

But the car would only repeat: “Re-routing, re-routing.”

It took her miles out of her way, driving along winding rural roads through what looked like a nature reserve, not responding to any of her requests for information except to repeat its refrain of “re-routing”. After about forty minutes of this aimless driving, Marie was about ready to lose her mind.

“Come on,” she complained in vain. “I just want to find a house.”

“Destination accepted,” the robotic voice chirped. It took the next left turn, continuing in silence, and Marie peered out the window, confused but curious. There was no way she was anywhere near her intended destination.

The car traveled for another five minutes along a road that followed the trajectory of a stream, then pulled off into a private driveway.

“Destination reached,” the car said, but Marie barely heard it, because she was already halfway out the door, staring at a house on top of a waterfall.

A house. On top of a waterfall.

It was abandoned and derelict, overgrown with forest. The foundations appeared to be eroding, and several large windows that must once have been spectacular were smashed into spiderwebs or broken out completely. Marie couldn’t even begin to imagine what sort of wildlife might have made the place home.

It was perfect. Everything about the route she’d taken to get here told Marie that the place was considerably out of the way, but homes like this weren’t usually built right in the middle of nowhere, so she was at least hopeful that there would be a town nearby. It would be a magnificent showstopper of a home, but it would take considerable work to restore it, which Marie thought would balance out. And it was obviously a mortal age structure, too - the kind of place that ought to be preserved. Obviously no one cared enough to do so at the moment, but with a scythe living in it, that would change.

Marie closed the publicar’s door and investigated as much as she dared. The footbridge to the front door looked unsound, but there was an overgrown path around the back of the property, and at the rear, she found a guesthouse that was dilapidated but mostly intact. From this angle, the main house looked level and seemed to be structurally sound - there even seemed to be some reserve power connected, if the way the Thunderhead camera mounted on the rear wall followed her movement was any indication.

Marie paused, glanced up. She rarely gave much thought to the Thunderhead’s constant surveillance. It was easy to forget, when one was a scythe, how much the rest of the world relied on its guidance, but there was no question that it paid attention, probably knew her own life as well as she did. And there had been a series of unusual events that day. Not impossible - electrical storms _did_ happen, after all, and publicars did sometimes behave strangely during them - but most definitely unusual. Marie would never know for sure, of course, but it made her wonder: what convoluted string of probabilities could have brought her here at this moment, and what actions would have to be taken - or more likely, not taken - to make them come to pass?

Marie smiled, lifting a hand to give the camera a wave. She would never know for sure, but she liked the idea that the Thunderhead approved of her presence here, and the motion sensor light on the camera did blink in response to her movement, which seemed almost like a wink.

Marie moved into the guesthouse the following day. She cleaned the place and boarded up a broken window, set up a camp bed and furniture. Then she traveled into the nearest town, which turned out to be ten minutes away, and put out a call for assistance - Scythe Curie was occupying Falling Water, and she needed all the help she could get.

Over time, people came. There were structural engineers and builders, plumbers and glaziers, and when they came to offer their assistance, they all stayed in town and brought their money and custom with them. Marie decided early on that she would not glean from the local population, and as a result, her presence came to be regarded as a boon rather than a burden. When she visited the market, she was greeted with smiles rather than suspicion, and it felt good to build something positive rather than just removing bad influences from the world, as she had done in her youth.

“You always make such interesting choices,” the local greengrocer said as she bagged up Marie’s fruit and vegetables - this week a varied selection that included everything from pomegranates and grapefruit to artichokes and eggplant. “Who do you cook for?”

“Myself, mostly,” Marie answered. “I like cooking.” She’d been in the main house for a few months by that point, and the kitchen was her pride and joy. “Anyone who’s around is welcome to share my table, though - it’s the least I can do, with all the help people give me.”

The greengrocer smiled. “I’ve never met a scythe with a hobby,” she said.

Marie smiled back. “How many scythes have you met?” 

“You’d be surprised,” the woman answered.

Marie wasn’t entirely sure that she would, but she didn’t challenge the statement. Although the greengrocer appeared to be in middle age - she had a gently lined face and a smattering of grey in her hair, much like Marie did herself these days - there was a depth to her expression that spoke of someone considerably older, perhaps nearing the turn of her first century.

She examined Marie’s basil with a critical eye. “This won’t last; I’ll get you a fresh one.” Ducking into the back room, she returned a moment later with a new bunch, but tucked the other into the bag as well. “You can use the old one to make a cutting, you know. If you like to cook, it’s much easier to grow your own. Do you have a garden up there?”

“Not yet,” Marie said. “I’m barely even managing to keep the forest out.”

“Would you like some help with that?” the woman asked. “I know a thing or two about keeping the local flora at bay.” She tucked the final item into Marie’s bag and wrote it all off her inventory.

Marie smiled. “I never turn anyone away,” she said.

* * *

The greengrocer, it turned out, was called Cate. Marie learned her name three days after their chat at the market, when the woman turned up at Falling Water with a truck full of gardening equipment.

“Where do I start?” she asked, adjusting the strap of a suitably rustic pair of overalls as Marie emerged from the house to greet her. Her attire made Marie feel overdressed, even without her robe.

“Well,” Marie said, glancing around at the property with its garden beds choked with weeds and the trees tapping against the upper windows. “It’s quite a job. You’re the expert.”

Cate followed her gaze. “It looks doable,” she said. “A few weeks to sort it all out. Less with more than one pair of hands.” She looked Marie up and down, sizing her up. “Are you going to help?”

“Definitely,” Marie said.

She had to change, of course - couldn’t garden in a dress - and as she slipped into clothes that she would usually wear for training, she reflected that it had been a very long time since anyone who wasn’t another scythe or someone involved in said training had seen her in anything other than her robe and underdress. There were still accents of lavender on most of her civilian gear, but even so, she felt paradoxically exposed and freed as she made her way back down to the garden to join Cate.

“I’m looking forward to this,” she said as Cate handed her a pair of gardening gloves and some shears. “I couldn’t really participate when the structural engineers were assessing the foundations, or when the glaziers were replacing the windows, but this shouldn’t be too hard.”

Cate smiled. “Tell me that at the end of today.”

They pulled weeds and cleared leaves, cut back vines and pruned shrubs. “Like this,” Cate said, parting foliage and showing Marie which branches to remove and where to shear. She clipped off one and watched Marie find another, approving of the choice but staying Marie’s hand before she made the snip. “More like this,” she said, reaching in to take hold of Marie’s hand, angling the shears so her cut would be at a 45-degree angle. “That’s the direction you want it to grow in.”

“Imagine cutting something and watching it grow back,” Marie murmured, then did her best to ignore Cate’s sideways glance.

They worked all day, and by the end of it they were sweaty and exhausted but they’d made good progress on the front garden, clearing the detritus and cutting back the snarl. There were some gaps now where things would need to be planted, but that was a job for later, once the back garden had been detangled too.

Marie offered Cate the guest house bathroom to wash up in and went to do the same in her own. Afterward, she cooked them a light meal of lemon and garlic chicken with asparagus spears. They ate on the terrace at the front of the house, under which the waterfall spilled into the stream below.

“This place really is spectacular,” Cate said, cocking her head to the side and listening to the sound of the rushing water. “Even now. I can’t believe it’s been sitting here going to ruin for as long as I’ve lived here.”

“How long have you been local?” Marie asked.

“About forty years,” Cate said. “I’m from Chicago originally, but I relocated here after…” She hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. “After my wife and son were gleaned.”

Marie reached for her glass of wine, letting Cate’s statement hang in the air for a moment while she took a sip. It seemed only right to allow the dead to be present for a time, to reflect on the gravity of that statement in light of their current context.

“I’m sorry that happened,” she said eventually. “Was it…?”

“A mass gleaning, yes. On a bus on their way to the cinema. I was supposed to be with them, but I was late coming home from work that day, so I took a publicar. When the scythe who did it came to give me immunity, he was… There was nothing in his eyes, no sadness or remorse. There were thirty people on that bus.” She took a sip of her own drink.

Marie wasn’t sure how to respond. She knew that there were some despicable scythes out there, and gleaning a public bus with children on board was unnecessarily cruel. But what could Marie say? Not “mass gleanings are inhumane,” because she had performed one herself. Not “I never glean children,” because Cate’s story wasn’t about her.

In the end, she commented on the only thing she could: “Well, the fact that you’re here offering me your assistance is remarkable, considering your history with scythes. There aren’t many people who’d be so open-minded.”

Cate eyed Marie steadily. “I’m not sure that I am,” she said, “but I see some humanity in you, so I thought I’d come and challenge my perceptions.”

Marie smiled. “That,” she said, “is the definition of being open-minded.”

Later, as Cate departed, she said, “I have to go to market in the morning, but I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Perfect,” Marie replied. “I’ll be out all morning anyway.”

Marie didn’t say it, and Cate didn’t ask, but the look in her eyes said that they both knew exactly where Marie would be.

* * *

When she returned the following day, Cate brought with her a crew of men. They carried ropes and picks and they used them to climb Marie’s trees, pulleying up chainsaws and lopping off dead and dangerous branches. When they were done, Marie and Cate helped them collect the cuttings, and they piled it all into the back of a truck and saw the men off.

“There is something satisfying about that,” Cate said, as they watched them go.

“Letting men be useful and then watching them leave?” Marie asked, and Cate laughed.

“That too. But I was thinking more of culling the dead wood.”

Ah. Marie nodded. “It’s necessary, isn’t it?” she asked. “To allow for new growth?”

“Mm,” Cate answered. “That it is. Speaking of, should we get back to it?”

They did, and over the next two weeks they fell into a routine, Cate going to the market in the morning while Marie gleaned, then working on the garden together in the afternoon. Marie cooked in the evening and they shared the meals on the terrace, and despite the tension her profession caused, Marie felt a camaraderie developing between them, and possibly something more.

“Gosh, that’s hard work,” Cate said, after they’d wrangled a sizable sapling into the ground, settling back onto her haunches and reaching for her water bottle. She twisted its lid off and lifted it to her lips, drinking so deeply that the water spilled down her chin. Marie watched, entranced, as rivulets trickled down her arching throat, following the lines of it over her collarbones to dampen the front of her top. She didn’t wipe it away after, just flapped the fabric at her neckline, an action that revealed an expanse of skin paler than the rest of her sun-browned form.

She caught Marie staring a moment later, and smirked. “We’ve got shit to shovel,” she said, indicating the bag of fertilizer-rich topsoil that was waiting for their attention. Spell broken, Marie dived for it, hoping that the action would help cover up her sudden fluster.

But the attention wasn’t entirely one-sided. Later on, when Marie was similarly hot and sweaty from the exertion of planting, she brushed the hair out of her face with dirty fingers, and the next time Cate looked up at her, she laughed.

“You’ve got a little something…” she said, then reached out. Obviously mindful of her own grimy fingers, she smoothed the heel of her palm over Marie’s brow instead, and though the touch was casual, it felt considerably warmer than their exertion would dictate.

* * *

Toward the end of the two weeks, with the garden almost complete, Marie cooked up a beef stir-fry for their dinner, flavoring it with chili and lime. When they ate it, though, it turned out to be considerably spicier than either of them expected, so searing that it set them both sniffling and beading with sweat. It wasn’t inedible, so they did finish it, but afterward the warm evening seemed oppressively hot.

“I’m sorry,” Marie said, fanning herself with her hand, “those chilies packed a much bigger punch than I expected.”

“It’s alright,” Cate replied, making an obvious effort to not guzzle her drink. “I like the burn, but I do feel hot all over.” She flapped her napkin to create a breeze of her own. “It’s a pity that plunge pool by the guesthouse is still a swamp - that would be really welcome right now.”

Marie smiled. “Come with me,” she said, and grabbed her glass. She led Cate along the terrace, through the living room and back out the other side, where a staircase descended from the floor. It went nowhere, instead ending in a platform that hung above the stream, wide enough for two people to sit, and, with the current water level, at the perfect height for the dangling in of feet.

“Amazing,” Cate breathed, and went down first. Marie followed, waiting for Cate to settle herself before she handed the other woman her glass and hitched up her dress, holding onto the banister rail as she lowered herself down.

The water was wonderfully cool against Marie’s toes, and when she shifted to take her glass from Cate she saw that her eyes were blissfully closed, head tipped back and feet swirling. Marie watched her for a moment, enjoying the sight of her in repose. Down here beneath the house, the air was cool. A gentle breeze drifted along the water and flowed past them up the stairs, tugging at the ends of Cate’s hair as Marie watched.

She enjoyed the view for a few moments more, then, mindful of her staring, reached out and retrieved her glass from Cate’s hand. Their fingers brushed each other, and Cate’s eyes opened. “Imagine living in a place like this,” she sighed. Her tone was wistful but not jealous.

“It’s an honor I’ll have to be careful to never take for granted,” Marie replied, swirling her ankles in the water and feeling her foot brush against Cate’s.

It was surprisingly quiet down here. Some of the noise of the waterfall was blocked by the house’s foundations - it sounded more distant than Marie would have expected, left plenty of room for quiet thought. “Where would you live, if you could live anywhere?” she asked.

Cate glanced at her, cocked her head to one side in thought. After a moment, she smiled. “A charter region on the Isle of Lesbos,” she said, “which would be exactly what it sounds like.”

Marie laughed. “I’m surprised the Thunderhead hasn’t tried that,” she said.

“Not sustainable,” Cate said, not missing a beat. “It’d be too popular. Too many women would leave their husbands to move there.”

“I can believe _that_ ,” Marie said, sounding a bit more earnest than she’d intended, and Cate smiled knowingly as she lifted her glass to her lips. 

They fell into silence for a time, swinging their legs and sipping their drinks. Marie felt their feet brush against each other again and wasn’t sure if it was an accident. She watched her toes make ripples in the water and eventually spoke again. “Have you had many partners since you moved here?”

“One or two,” Cate said. “Not until about ten years after I arrived, and nothing serious even then. But sometimes it’s nice to know people that way.”

“It is,” Marie agreed, and when her toes brushed the arch of Cate’s foot this time, it definitely wasn’t an accident.

She looked up and Cate was watching her, eyes steady and clear. She lifted a hand and Cate didn’t pull away, not when the backs of Marie’s fingers trailed down her cheek, nor when they slid into her hair.

When Marie kissed her, it was an exploration, gentle then deep, quite different from the eager hunger Marie had experienced with her other partners. It felt quieter, measured and mature, their knees bumping as they turned toward each other, the warmth of skin a bright contrast to the cool water lapping at their ankles.

It was a different sort of experience, but one that Marie was just as keen to explore. “Come upstairs,” she whispered when they broke for air. Her thumb caressed Cate’s throat.

They left a trail of wet footprints behind them, and Cate’s hand was warm in Marie’s as Marie guided her through the house. When they reached the doorway to her bedroom, Marie turned, catching Cate’s other hand as well and tugging her over the threshold.

Marie’s bedroom was magnificent, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view out over the forest to the hills beyond. Cate seemed a little awed by it, so Marie attempted to offer a distraction, sliding a hand around her waist and tugging her close to kiss her again. “I promise my bed is quite ordinary,” she said.

But Cate didn’t respond. She lifted her fingers toward Marie’s cheek but didn’t make contact, and after a moment Marie realized that her hand was shaking.

“Cate?” Marie asked.

A breath rattled out of Cate’s lungs and her hand fell away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Downstairs, I could almost forget, but up here…” Her eyes swiveled towards the window again and Marie followed her gaze, belatedly realizing what she was looking at. It wasn’t the exterior view that had affected her but rather the inside one - Marie had set up a desk so she could journal with that vista before her, and today she had hung her robe over the back of her chair. Her journal was on the desk, but so was her ring, and the gold-hilted dagger she had used that morning.

“I’m sorry,” Cate repeated when Marie turned back to her, feeling something heavy solidify in her gut. “I can’t.”

“I…” Marie breathed, loosening her hold on Cate’s waist even as she struggled to find the words to respond.

Cate’s eyes were heavy and sad, and more than a little afraid. “Are you… Are you going to glean me?”

The thing inside Marie that was congealing into disappointment morphed abruptly into horror. “ _No,_ ” she whispered, aghast, dropping her hands away from Cate completely. “How could you think…?” she started, but couldn’t finish the sentence.

Because she knew how. No matter what Marie built or how she treated the living, she would always have the specter of death hanging around her like a mantle, and therefore, to ordinary people, she would always be monstrous. She took a step back, unable to help herself, and felt her head shaking involuntarily. “No,” she said again.

Cate reached out to her then, but it was too late. The distance had already formed. “I’m sorry,” she said for the third time. “I really am.” Then she turned and fled the room.

Marie backed herself up until she couldn’t anymore, until the backs of her legs hit the bed and her knees gave out on her. Then she collapsed onto the covers, buried her head in her hands, and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content info: mentions of gleaning children.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings for this chapter.

**iv.** Part 1

Marie had been seeing Scythe Faraday at Conclave for years, but it wasn’t until she attended her first one after turning a corner and found him similarly refreshed that she really _saw_ him again.

It was Vernal Conclave in the Year of the Okapi, and she spotted him as soon as she arrived. He had reset to perhaps forty and become all dark hair and distinguished lines, and Marie, who had gone back to thirty-five (although she had kept some strategic streaks of her naturally greying hair), _felt_ herself notice him in a way she hadn’t noticed anyone for years. Her heart rate quickened and her fingers tingled, nerves firing indiscriminately and the sensation coalescing into a warm fire in her gut. He didn’t look quite as he had when she’d been his apprentice, hiding outside his door at night desperately imagining his touch, but it was close enough, and this body apparently had quite an impressive flesh memory.

Marie’s mind, however, had not been altered, and she was sensible enough now to keep her baser instincts at bay. She did seek him out, but not until lunchtime, and even then she was determined to keep their conversation professional.

“You look good,” she told him after they’d said their hellos, refusing to let it become an elephant under the rug.

“As do you,” he replied, offering her a smile. “I like your stripes. Very in-keeping with our year’s namesake.”

Marie laughed. “Don’t okapi have stripes on their backsides?” she asked, spearing a shrimp on her plate with a cocktail stick.

His expression turned sheepish. “I believe so,” he admitted, “but they’re very striking all the same.”

“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment,” Marie said, and did. She rather liked that he was still conversationally awkward, at least when it came to personal things. “What’s your take on this anti-mortal sentiment we’re hearing so much of?” Politics and reading the room had always been what he was best at, and Marie trusted his judgement.

Faraday chewed on a piece of ham while he thought about the question. “It concerns me,” he said eventually. “Sentiments rarely stay simple thought for long, and in our hands, opinions can have serious consequences.”

Marie nodded. “Scythe Ford is already targeting mortal-borns for gleaning,” she said. “He was telling me about it earlier.” Marie glanced in the direction of the grey-robed scythe, who was bending the ear of someone else now.

Faraday followed her gaze. “He probably thought you an ally. It wouldn’t be the wildest assumption in the world.”

Marie opened her mouth to ask him why, then closed it again. She knew why, and it wasn’t unfair, though hearing those words from him did sting a little. “I didn’t glean the cabinet because they were mortal-born,” she said, “I did it because I thought I could change the world.”

“You did,” Faraday replied, but there wasn’t any admiration in his tone, nor any particular judgement.

Marie gave a wry snort. “Hardly,” she said. “At best I helped speed things up a bit, and I nearly lost my principles in the process. It took me years to find my way again.”

“Well,” Faraday said, and there was a certain warmth in his eyes that hadn't been there before, “you wouldn’t be the first scythe to stray off the path, so don’t be too hard on yourself. You seem to be putting your fame to excellent use these days maintaining that mortal-age home of yours.”

Marie smiled. “I’m trying,” she said. “And people usually come when I call.”

“I’d like to visit sometime,” he said. “It sounds like it’s quite a sight.”

“You’d be very welcome,” Marie replied, and all the determined professionalism in the world couldn’t stop her from thinking about how much improved the view would be with him in it.

* * *

Faraday didn’t visit, but he did contact her.

In the months that followed Conclave - through the long summer recess when scythes were subject to little oversight - anti-mortal sentiment began to grow, and with it came news of mortal-borns being gleaned in greater and greater numbers, a huge swath of the population suddenly erased from existence. Marie found the practise abhorrent, and even more concerning to her personally was the fact that some of the people advocating it were using her image, in the form of that old news footage of the president, to bolster their own rhetoric. _The world is a better place without those stuck in the past_ , the posts on guerilla forums read. _Scythe Curie is a post-mortal hero_. Something needed to be done.

It was Faraday who gave her the answer.

“High Blade Ames has organized an event,” he told her over the phone. “Three days, press-attended. She intends to make an official statement about the LoneStar scythedom’s stance on gleaning mortal-borns, and she’s invited scythes from the other Merican regions to attend and offer their support. I’m going, and so are Cervantes and Angelou, but having you there would be an even bigger boon.” He didn’t mention the news footage that had been replayed and twisted into propaganda; he didn’t need to. She knew how thoroughly he researched things.

It made sense that the Texans would take a hard-line stance on targeting mortal-borns. Texas loved its history. They spoke Mortal English in the region, and their scythedom was positively steeped in tradition. Sometimes too much, in Marie’s opinion - some of her most vitriolic critics had been from there, even though the breakup of the United States was what had allowed them to rise as a region of their own in the first place. Marie couldn’t imagine she’d be their favorite guest, whatever the cause.

“Will you come?” Faraday asked. “Quite aside from anything else, it would be lovely to see you again.” His voice was deep and smooth, and Marie felt herself smile.

“Will you run interference between Scythe Allen and me? He’s never been my biggest fan.”

Faraday chuckled. “I will defend your honor at all times,” he said, like a knight from a mortal-age movie.

* * *

Knights and ladies wasn't far off, Marie thought. Alighting from the train in Texas was like stepping directly into the past.

She’d traveled with Scythes Faraday, Cervantes and Angelou via high-speed rail from Fulcrum City to Galveston, which the LoneStar scythedom had made its base of operations. The moment they ascended from the underground platform, history was all around them, because the train station was located beneath a railway museum, itself housed in a grand 20th-century building. As they made their way out to the street past ancient gleaming locomotives, it was impossible not to be impressed by the things mortals had wrought.

“And all by themselves,” Scythe Angelou commented, when Marie voiced her observation.

A representative from the LoneStar scythedom - a junior scythe who introduced himself as Orbison - collected them from the station in an off-grid car. He gave them a short history of the building as he drove. “It was a working station a long time ago, then it became a museum, and now it’s both. Have y’all been to Galveston before?” 

Cervantes had, but the rest of them admitted that it was their first time, so Orbison took them on a short tour of the island. “That’s Old Red,” he told them, indicating a beautiful sandstone and red brick building with Roman-style arches. “It’s where we have Conclave.” Next on his list was a green-looking area with a blue glass pyramid at the center. “And that’s Moody Gardens. We keep it as a nature reserve.” They drove along the waterfront, where a pier with carnival attractions stretched out towards the horizon. “That’s the Pleasure Pier,” he informed them. “Still operational for anyone brave enough to visit scythe country - well, when it’s not under two feet of water, anyway.”

Galveston, Marie knew, was plagued by wild weather. In the mortal age it had been all but flattened by hurricanes a number of times, and now, even with the Thunderhead’s influence, it wasn’t immune to flooding and storms. “The public must be very helpful here,” Marie said, “to keep the area so well-maintained for you.” She knew all about the work required to keep a home that was at the mercy of nature, after all.

Orbison glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. “Oh, they are - generous to a fault. But even if they weren’t, we’re a stubborn bunch, and we like it here. It’d take more than a bit of rain to budge us.”

The same couldn’t be said for her, though, it seemed. In his enthusiasm to deliver them to their destination, Orbison took the next corner a little too fast, and Marie, sandwiched between the two men in the backseat and already leaning forward to take in the view, had to reach out and grab something to steady herself. That thing turned out to be Faraday’s knee, and the following moments were punctuated by a hot flash of embarrassment for her and a wide-eyed expression for him, quickly schooled. No one else seemed to notice, and Marie retrieved her hand without comment, but for the rest of the drive she was acutely aware of the warmth of his thigh against hers, and that both of them were studiously avoiding eye contact.

Their destination was Bishop’s Palace, a stately mortal-age home in the Victorian style, with several beautiful stained-glass windows that spoke of its historical association with the Catholic Church. Now, it was High Blade Ames’ residence, and the location of her gathering.

She greeted them on arrival, waiting at the top of a grand white staircase that led to the front door. The Texan High Blade was a handsome woman, currently in late middle age, wearing a fitted robe of violet silk that fastened asymmetrically on one hip and was cut to show off her underskirt, a color-blocked affair of white and gold. The overall effect was striking, a suffragette sash turned garment, and no doubt would have made her patron historic proud.

“Welcome to the LoneStar region,” she said as they approached. “Scythe Cervantes, it’s good to see you again. Scythe Angelou, well met.” She shook each of their hands in turn. “Scythe Faraday - I believe we were introduced on Endura once. And Scythe Curie - how wonderful it is to have your support.” Her handshake was warm and firm.

“I’m very glad to be here, Your Excellency,” Marie replied. She heard the shutter of a camera, realized that the press coverage had already begun, and had to suppress a flinch. It was exactly why she was here, after all - these images would be a powerful argument against using her likeness to fan the flames of anti-mortal sentiment - but whatever the context, it felt strange to be courting attention again.

Faraday apparently picked up on her unease, because as they made their way inside and were shown to their rooms, he fell in beside her and murmured a conspiratorial aside: “She’s a great woman, Scythe Ames, but I’m surprised she remembers me - when we met on Endura she was outrageously drunk and showing her Bowie knife to anyone who’d look.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Marie asked, and Faraday laughed. It cut through the tension remarkably well.

* * *

Dinner that night was casual and mercifully private, letting the guests settle in and get to know each other. The High Blade and two of her underscythes, Allen and Navarro, were in attendance, but otherwise it was an eclectic bunch. Marie recognized Scythes Bogart and Walker from EastMerica, and was introduced to Scythes Carson and King, who’d come from the West. There were two Amazonian scythes, recognizable by their forest-green robes, as well as representatives from both Mexiteca and Chilargentine.

Marie circulated, making the rounds and getting a feel for these new allies. There were local wines on offer but Marie decided to stick to the non-alcoholic options, mindful that, in the minds of some people here, she was still the outrageous and decadent showboater she’d been in her youth. Showing herself otherwise even without the press in attendance seemed like the most expedient way to change people’s minds.

Not that everyone’s could be. She’d fallen into conversation with the Scythe Perón when they’d both found themselves hovering over the Chili con Queso multiple times, loading up their plates with tortilla chips and spooning on the cheesy sauce with abandon.

“It’s so bad,” the Chilargentine woman said with a guilty grin, “but it’s so _good_.”

“Oh, I know,” Marie murmured, still working on her last bite. “I can’t believe I call myself a cook.”

“You like to cook too?” Scythe Perón asked, and they very quickly bonded over food.

It went well. Marie spoke reasonable Spanic but Scythe Perón was keen to practice her Mortal English, so they spoke in that, but switched as needed to clarify ideas.

“A good steak is essential to Argentine parrillada, but now I see people making with - I do not know the word - those _pepitas_ , and I think: the Thunderhead knows much, but it does not know food. There are many things the mortals did better.”

“Excuse me, ladies.” Scythe Allen appeared beside them, clearly wanting to get past to the table, but instead of waiting for them to move, he laid his hands on Scythe Perón’s hips and physically shifted her out of his way, an action that left her flabbergasted and Marie immediately seeing red. With his path now clear, he began to fill his plate, but his casual obliviousness only made Marie more furious.

“That was very rude,” she said, quiet but pointed.

Scythe Allen glanced up, and when he caught her glare his lip twisted into a dismissive sneer. “What are you going to do?” he asked, looking her up and down. “Cut my throat in front of a news camera?”

Marie’s hands balled into fists. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. She opened her mouth to respond, but there was a sudden swish of ivory beside her, and Faraday’s fingers discreetly fell against the inside of her wrist. “Really, John,” he said, “there’s no need for that. We’re all allies here, aren’t we?”

Marie saw a muscle in Scythe Allen’s jaw twitch. “It’s _Augustus_ ,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh, is it? Sorry, my mistake. You must get that a lot.” Marie had never heard Faraday sound so casually insincere. He kept eye contact with Allen for a few moments more before pointedly turning away. “Scythe Perón, is it? I’m Michael Faraday. _Mucho gusto._ ” He extended his hand to her, but stayed by Marie’s side, keeping himself physically between her and Scythe Allen until the other man walked away.

The rest of the evening passed without further incident, but when the night was over, Faraday waited for her by the foot of the grand spiral staircase all the same. “Thought I’d walk you up,” he said when she appeared.

Marie smiled. “Are you worried I’ll get lost?”

He gestured her ahead of him, and they climbed the stairs. “Only if by ‘getting lost’ you mean ‘sneaking into Scythe Allen’s room and killing him in his sleep’,” he said.

Marie snorted. “I wouldn’t waste sneaking into someone’s room on _him_ ,” she quipped, then a moment later realized what she’d said and nearly stumbled, catching herself with a few quick steps that pulled her ahead until she reached the landing and had a chance to recover her poise.

The landing was a wide circular platform, railed like a balcony, and she paused with her hand on the banister and waited for him to catch up.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she asked when he did. “You knew damn well what Scythe Allen’s name was.”

Faraday smiled slyly. “Of course I did,” he said. “I also know that he absolutely hates it when people get it wrong.”

Marie laughed, and felt the music of it carry into her next sentence. “You know, I never thought of you as particularly sly, but I can see now that I just missed it.”

“Oh,” he said, glancing sideways at her, “I have many hidden depths. You only knew me as a teacher, remember. I was on my best behavior, then.”

“And now?” Marie asked, but Faraday just smiled.

They reached the top of the stairs. Marie’s room was only the second one along, and as they approached her door she wished they had further to go, wished she could spend even an extra thirty seconds in the company of this man, who was everything she remembered but more, too - not just wise but witty, a real person and not just an adolescent’s fantasy.

She forced herself to stop at her door. “Well,” she said, smiling as she reached for the handle, “goodnight, Michael.”

She saw the recognition in his eyes. She’d never called him ‘Michael’ before, and it made his gaze warm - not hungry but definitely inviting, a down comforter or warm bath of an expression. “Goodnight, Marie,” he said, as she slipped through her door.

* * *

The following day was full of activity and press coverage from the moment they woke. Breakfast was catered by a local restaurant with a mortal-born owner and attended by photographers, and afterward, the guests were invited on a walking tour of Galveston’s historic neighborhoods. Their elegy was filmed listening thoughtfully to stories of mortal-borns and their contributions to community, or exclaiming over the splendor of scrupulously maintained mortal-age buildings. Marie had never felt the strain of performance harder in her life. It was strange to feel so drained by the expression of a sentiment she did actually believe in, but it felt perversely good, too - she had never felt exhausted by publicity in the days when she’d craved it.

They had some downtime in the afternoon, but it was only a few hours, and then they were back on show for the evening. High Blade Ames had organized a party as the main event of their stay - one at which she would make a statement to the press - and when Marie made her way downstairs to join the festivities, she found the place buzzing. All the guests from the previous evening were in attendance, but so were a number of Texan scythes she hadn’t met before and an entire legion of journalists and photographers.

She mingled, having a conversation with Scythe Reynolds and her photo taken with Scythe Houston. She took a brief, note-comparing walk around the conservatory with Scythe Angelou and practiced her Portuzonian by chatting with Scythe Ronaldo, but all night there seemed to be ivory fluttering at the corner of her vision. Faraday had taken up space in her consciousness in a way he hadn’t since her apprenticeship, and when High Blade Ames called everyone into the music room to deliver her speech, Marie gave into temptation and slipped in beside him in the crowd.

“Hello, you,” she murmured, nudging his shoulder with hers. He glanced at her and smiled with the same warmth with which he’d said goodnight.

High Blade Ames tapped her glass with the hilt of her Bowie knife. “Thank you,” she said, sheathing the knife in her bodice and waiting for the room to quiet. “Thank y’all for being here tonight. As you know, we have come together this evening - scythes from across the Mericas - to take a stand against a gleaning practice that has become increasingly troubling in recent months: the systematic targeting of those born in the age of mortality. I stand before you now to state clearly that the LoneStar scythedom condemns this practice, and to assure you that any scythe claiming allegiance to our region found to be engaging in it will be sanctioned in the harshest terms. I call upon all Merican scythedoms to denounce this violation of our sacred duty to humanity.

“We are all born of the mortal age. Whether young or old, we owe our immortal existence to those who came before us, and to say that the survivors of mortality are no longer welcome in our world is to spit in the face of those who gave us life. Mortal-borns are our grandparents; they are our teachers and our business owners and our farmers - they are the enduring hearts of our communities.

“I call upon the World Scythe Council to investigate and pass judgment on this matter, and to mortal-borns, I offer the Region of Texas as sanctuary. Any of you who cross our border will now be under the protection of the LoneStar scythedom, and those who present themselves to us will receive five years of immunity. We cannot erase the damage that has already been done, but we can do our best to make it right. Thank you.”

The applause was thunderous. Scythes were not the cheering kind, but the attending crowd clapped long and emphatically. Cameras flashed and video was beamed out live to the world, and Marie was proud to have been part of something so important.

And it wasn’t over. Before the applause died away, four people made their way through the crowd. They were musicians, by the look of it, carrying their instrument cases over their shoulders, and after setting the objects down, all four of them knelt at the High Blade’s feet.

“Assembled friends,” Ames announced, “we are privileged tonight to greet the only all mortal-born band in Texas. They have agreed to play for us this evening so that we might experience living history and feel the unbroken line of human connection through time.” She stepped forward and presented her ring to first one, then all members of the group. “I thank you,” she said to them, then lifted her gaze to the crowd again, “and I invite all of _you_ to dance and enjoy the music. Celebrate living!”

As the band pulled out their instruments, Marie turned to Michael. “Five years’ immunity,” she said, “I wonder what the World Scythe Council will make of that.”

“I’m not sure Ames cares,” he replied. “I believe ‘they can go glean themselves if they don’t like it’ were her specific words, when I spoke to her yesterday.”

Marie smiled. “A woman after my own heart,” she said. “Seems like ‘showing people her Bowie knife’ _could_ be a euphemism, too.” Marie mimed the act of sliding something into her bodice, pleased with her own wit, but then Michael’s gaze followed her hand and lingered for a few seconds too long, and suddenly she’d created a moment of tension she hadn’t anticipated.

“Yes, well,” he said, when he finally pulled his eyes back up to her face.

A beat of silence stretched between them. The band began to play, music swelling out into the room, and the floor started to shift and clear. Some scythes abruptly vanished, finding places elsewhere they suddenly needed to be, and others took up the High Blade’s offer, extending hands to their nearest companions.

Marie loved to dance. True, her life as a scythe hadn’t created much opportunity for it, but she’d loved it as a child, and at the few family weddings she’d been to over the years when she’d managed to find someone willing to engage her. Now, the music seemed to shimmer and vibrate through her, and she felt a powerful urge to move her feet.

She looked at Michael. Would he ask her? Would she ask him? Perhaps it would be a dangerous thing to be so close to him, but she was willing to throw caution to the wind. She was still working up the courage to extend her hand to him when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Would you care to dance?” the Texan scythe asked her. He was wearing a cowboy hat and a charming grin, and his hand was raised in invitation.

Marie felt a pang, but she couldn’t turn him down. It would be both rude and suspicious to throw him over in favor of Michael, and the only other alternative was not to dance at all.

“I’d love to,” she said, taking his hand. She let herself be swept out onto the floor and resolved to circle back to Faraday later.

“And which cowboy are you?” she asked her companion, as his hand settled on her waist and her fingers found his shoulder.

He grinned at her. “I’m not,” he said, “I just play one on TV. Scythe Harrelson at your service, Ma’am, but you can call me Woody if you like.”

The dancing was fantastic, sweeping and lively. The band had obviously been given instructions to avoid romantic ballads in a room full of scythes, so the music was upbeat and twangy and fun. Marie did two circles of the room with Scythe Harrelson, then switched to Scythe Austin, making her way through all the dancing scythes until even Cervantes swept her around the floor. She couldn’t spot Faraday’s ivory robe anywhere, though.

“Where’s Michael?” she asked Miguel, comfortable enough with him to pose the question. “Does he have two left feet I don’t know about, or something?”

Cervantes shook his head. “I passed him out in the hall earlier. He said something about feeling tired. I think he’s gone to bed.”

“Weak,” Marie quipped, but it was only to silence the voice in the back of her mind, which was saying _coward_ instead.

She took a break after dancing with Cervantes, fetching herself a drink and wandering around the edge of the room while she sipped it. She was disappointed by Faraday’s disappearance, perhaps even annoyed with him. There was definitely _something_ between them, something different than what had been there in the past. She was certain that she hadn’t misread the warmth in his gaze, and yet he had run away rather than acknowledge it.

She wasn’t having it, not again. She would not get the train back to Fulcrum City with him tomorrow with this awkward tension hanging between them. Finding herself near the room’s exit, she slipped out, heading toward the staircase. There was no one around, so, setting her drink down on a nearby table, she went up.

By the time she reached Faraday’s door, her heart was pounding. She felt like a girl again when she paused outside it, but here in this corridor she didn’t have the luxury of standing outside and twisting herself into knots. Anyone could come along here at any moment.

Raising her hand, she knocked twice, then turned the door handle and slipped inside.

The room was in shadow, lit only by a single lamp on the far side of the bed. She found Michael standing by the window, framed by the lights of Galveston beyond. He held a cup of tea in his hands, but he wasn’t drinking, and by the time she closed the door behind her, he wasn’t looking at the view anymore either. She could make out his eyes, widening with shock as he turned toward her, and he remained frozen that way for several moments as he took her in, pressed against the doorframe with her hand gripping the knob, trying desperately to control her shaking breath.

When he finally spoke, he tried to make a joke: “Have...have you come to collect my tea cup?” But his voice rattled almost as much as the cup rattled against its saucer.

“No,” Marie replied, gathering her courage and pulling herself upright. “I came to ask you why you disappeared. I wanted to dance with you.”

He turned more fully toward her, reached down to set his cup on the bedside table. His robe, she noticed then, was hanging over the bed-end, but he was still wearing ivory - a shirt and trousers of well-tailored linen that made the lines of his body sharp and clean.

“I didn’t think that was a good idea,” he told her, “not in front of the press. They see things, cameras - things you might prefer they didn’t.”

“Like what?” Marie asked. Her voice was breathy quiet.

Michael glanced down at the floor, then back up at her, seeming to make a decision. “I don’t know,” he said, then his lips curled into a smile. He stretched his palm out toward her. “Would you like to find out?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Marie whispered, and moved forward to take his hand.

They could hear the music through the floor. It was muffled, little more than a beat and some warped high notes, but it gave them something to work with as they came together. Michael’s hand found the small of her back and his touch thrilled her; she felt her pulse racing as she curled her fingers around his shoulder. Within the confines of his room he stepped her back and she followed, looked up at him and let him lead. His hand was warm around hers and his eyes were electrifying, dark and deep in the lamplight. Marie could feel every inch of her body that was in contact with his, and as they moved her world contracted into nothing but him, floating on top of the music wrapped up in his arms and his gaze.

The song faded and bled into another, a warble even harder to make out. They lost the rhythm but rocked together, neither willing to let the other go.

“Do you see now?” Michael asked, voice low and husky. “Do you see why I didn’t want the cameras watching?”

Marie smiled. “Mm, I do. But there’s no one watching now,” she said, walking her fingers across his shoulder. “Not even the Thunderhead.”

“This is very much not allowed,” he whispered, but his fingers splayed against her back all the same.

“Says who?” Marie asked. “I’m not proposing marriage; are you?”

“No,” Michael replied.

“Then in the words of a very wise woman: if they don’t like it, they can go glean themselves.”

And she kissed him. It was tame but lingering, rocking forward on her toes to catch his mouth, feeling her body press against his and hanging there for a moment behind her closed eyes, just enjoying the feel of him and the shape of his lips. When she lowered herself down again, her own lips were wearing a smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever stopped wanting to do that,” she whispered.

He released her hand and brought his fingers up to cup her jaw, stroking her cheek and tilting her chin up towards him. “I might have thought about it a few times myself.”

This time, when he kissed her, she got to taste him. His fingers slid into her hair and tugged her head back, and she clung to his shoulder and melted into him. Kissing him was like stealing cookies from the jar, and she wanted more, canted her chin up and nipped greedily at his bottom lip. He groaned against her mouth and bent her head back even further, and here was a different side of him, passionate and assertive. It was a part of his personality she felt she’d always known existed, but had never been able to coax out of him before. It felt like a victory and she reveled in it, drowning in the twin thrill of the forbidden and the revelatory.

When they broke apart they were both breathless, clinging to each other and gasping for air. She bumped her nose against his and smiled when he looked at her, his eyes little more than dark pools in the half-light.

“You _do_ have hidden depths,” she whispered, sliding her hand onto his waist.

“I did warn you,” he murmured, curling his fingers in the ends of her hair. “If we keep this up, I might behave very badly indeed.”

“Is that a promise?” Marie asked, and leaned up into him again.

As their lips met again, Michael's hand stole beneath her robe, sliding around from her back to burrow in beneath its folds. His fingers found her hip, stroked her side, palm gliding over her silky underdress until his fingers came to rest just above the curve of her backside. She pressed herself into him, right up against the firm of his chest, and he broke their kiss on a whimper.

“Oh,” he breathed, and she felt him tremble against her; “you’ll be the death of me.”

“Not tonight,” she whispered. “Take me to bed, Michael. Even if this is all we get, take me to bed.”

And his hands tightened around her, and he kissed her again, and then he did. Half the Texan scythedom and a legion of reporters were just downstairs, but they shed each other’s clothes anyway, peeling away both ivory and lavender until the lamplight caught nothing but skin. Then, with the music of the party still vibrating through the floorboards, they finally stopped circling each other and completed the dance that had been on their cards for fifty years.


	5. Chapter 5

**iv.** Part 2

It wasn’t just that night, of course.

It took a month for the World Scythe Council to respond to High Blade Ames’ speech - a long month in which mortal-borns continued to be gleaned. Many made it to the sanctuary of Texas and received their five years of immunity, but plenty of others were intercepted along the way, hunted down by angry scythes who didn’t appreciate being told what to do.

It was a tragedy that Marie thought would be felt internationally for many years, perhaps even for the rest of time. Even so, it felt like a victory when the World Council delivered their verdict. Prometheus himself made the announcement - beamed out onto screens and radios everywhere - denouncing the practice of targeting mortal-borns as a gross violation of the second commandment. He then read out a list of names, publicly condemning the ringleaders of the movement, demanding that they present themselves on Endura for censure.

Marie was in a publicar not far from Cleveland when she heard the news. She was headed home, but when she heard the broadcast she immediately re-routed the car towards the city, stopped to pick up a bottle of champagne along the way, and was knocking on Michael’s door an hour later.

“Have you heard?” she asked when he opened it, ignoring the surprise on his face. “Have you heard the news?”

“I have,” he said, but didn’t offer any more than that.

“Then I thought we could…” Marie smiled, lifted the bottle in her hand to show it to him. “It’s a cause for celebration, isn’t it?”

He glanced at the bottle, surveyed her, and Marie couldn’t quite read his expression. For a moment, she worried that he was going to turn her away, but then he stepped out of the doorway and gestured her through.

Marie brushed past him into the hall, then made a beeline for the kitchen. It had been a long time since she’d been in his home, and as soon as she crossed the threshold she felt the ghosts of remembered tension settle on her shoulders, so went straight for the room where she’d always been most comfortable.

Marie knew Michael’s kitchen intimately - more intimately than she knew him, even now. It had been inside its walls that she’d first discovered her love of cooking, teaching herself to prepare her grandmother’s recipes when she’d been charged with preparing his meal every night. Completely besotted, she remembered trying to impress him, first with ostentatious flourishes, which he’d deemed inappropriate for a scythe’s daily fare, then with creative simplicity, which he’d appreciated more. She remembered that he’d particularly enjoyed her pot-roasted artichokes, so she’d prepared them often, and when she entered the kitchen again, she saw that not only was the stove the same but the heavy cast-iron pot was still on the exact shelf that she’d always struggled to pull it down from.

“Hello, old girl,” she murmured, reaching up to brush her fingers against it. “Is everything still in the same place?” She glanced at Michael and found him leaning in the doorway.

“As far as I remember,” he said, watching her appraisingly.

Marie turned on her heel, eyes scanning the cupboards, trying to think where she might find some champagne glasses. She’d never served him alcohol during her apprenticeship, but scythes always ended up with more than they needed, so there was bound to be some suitable glassware here somewhere. She pondered for a moment, then selected her cupboard, pulling it open and grinning in triumph. She had to thread her hand through right to the back, but she found what she was looking for - two tacky crystal champagne flutes.

“The gifts people will give us,” she said as she set them down on the benchtop.

“Mm,” Michael replied. “I must have decided that those were ugly enough to keep without it going to my head.”

Marie laughed, then set about opening the bottle, twisting the cage open and easing out the cork, catching it in her hand when it popped. She poured the glasses, then turned to Michael to pass him one. He took it from her hand but didn’t look at it, instead watching her as he said: “One hundred thirty seven.”

“What?” Marie asked.

“One hundred and thirty seven,” he repeated. “That’s how many mortal-borns were gleaned last month while we waited for the Grandslayers to make a decision.”

“Oh,” Marie breathed, suddenly unsure of herself. “Is this in bad taste?”

“Not entirely,” he reassured her. “I mean, I’ll gladly drink to Henry Ford being crushed under the wheels of his own automobile, if that’s the sort of punishment the Council have planned for him. But I do have to wonder why you’re _here_.” His dark eyes were questioning.

 _Oh._ “I was in the area,” Marie said, though it sounded like a weak response even to her.

The corners of Michael’s mouth twitched upward. “Really,” he said. “Do you often travel three hours away from home to go gleaning?”

It was Marie’s turn to smile. “I do actually,” she said. “I never glean from the local town, and I don’t like to stick too close to home. That’s what it’s like when you live outside the city.”

“Right,” he said, swinging the champagne glass between his fingers, “and today you just _happened_ to be within a few miles of Cleveland?” His body language was all languid confidence, one shoulder slouched against the doorframe, and the sight of it did strange things to Marie’s insides.

“I did,” Marie replied, though her voice came out a breathy whisper. She made a conscious effort to strengthen it. “There are lots of towns around here that I’ve never gleaned in - Wadsworth, Orwell, Amherst. In the last month, I decided that they deserved some of my attention. It’s one of the benefits of my method - I go wherever the impulse takes me.”

He drew himself away from the doorframe, a movement that pulled him up to his full height and made her realize how close they were standing. “And when you heard the news, your impulse brought you here?”

“I thought paying a visit seemed appropriate,” she said, “seeing as we were in it _together_ , and all.”

“Hm,” Michael murmured, taking a step forward and bringing himself right into her space, forcing her to either tilt her head back to look at him or take a step back.

Marie held her ground and their eyes locked. She could feel her pulse quickening but she held herself steady. “Was I wrong?” she asked. “Is my being here a problem?”

Michael grunted a laugh. “Everything about you is a problem, Marie.” But his fingers reached up to catch a strand of her hair.

They never did drink the champagne.

* * *

The third time, he came to her.

She was surprised when she opened the front door at Falling Water and found him outside it. The last time, as they’d lain together naked and exhausted in his bed, he’d trailed his fingers over the lines of her collarbone and said: “We can’t keep doing this, you know. Once was giving in to a weakness, twice is an impulse, but any more and it will start to feel deliberate.”

“I know,” she’d agreed, and when she’d left that evening, she’d done so quite deliberately, unwilling to put either of them through the agony of having to say goodbye after waking up together. She’d been steadfast, too, keeping to towns south of Mill Run when she went out gleaning, determined that they would not see each other again until the next Conclave.

And now here he was.

“Hello,” she said. He’d had his back to her when she opened the door, looking around at the forest and the falls, but when she spoke he jumped and spun to face her, and right away she could tell that something was wrong.

He looked haggard. There were dark circles under his eyes, his beard was unkempt, and even once he stopped turning he seemed to twitch. He reached up to rake his fingers through his hair, clearly trying to make himself presentable, but only succeeded in mussing himself further. “Can I come in?” he asked.

“Of course,” Marie answered, stepping aside to let him, then leading him through to her living room. “Would...would you like a drink, or something?” He was looking around at the decor of her home, but he didn’t really seem to be taking it in.

“Water,” he said, after a moment. “Water would be good.”

“Okay,” Marie said. “I’ll be right back. Sit down, alright?”

She hurried to the kitchen and back as quickly as she could, returning with a glass of water that was tall and icy. In her absence, she found he had sat down, but was now huddled over with his elbows on his knees and both hands clutched in his hair. “Here,” she said, approaching with the glass. He unfolded to take it from her and proceeded to gulp down half of it in three swallows, letting his hand fall against his knee afterward with the glass dangling from his fingers, head back and eyes closed as he took a deep, steadying breath.

When he opened his eyes again, they were clearer. “Thank you,” he said. His free hand made a little fish-flop of a gesture that seemed intended to indicate his surroundings. “This is...you have...nice.”

“Michael,” she said, “what on earth is wrong?”

He looked at her properly then, and must have seen the worry in her expression, because he made a visible attempt to master himself, sitting up straighter and reaching out to deposit his water glass on the coffee table. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t intend to come here. I just… I’ve had a rough week.”

“I can see that,” Marie said, perching herself on the arm of the adjacent sofa. “Tell me about it.”

He took another deep breath and she could hear the weight in it. “The mortal-born gleanings,” he said, “they’ve altered the population statistics. Because they were all so old, it’s thrown the numbers out, and now all my calculations are skewing young.”

“How young?” Marie asked.

Michael’s voice shook. “Fifteen at the beginning of the week, seventeen on Tuesday. And for the last two, six and eight.”

“Oh, _Michael_ ,” she whispered, but he wasn’t finished.

“And I thought that would do it, for a little while. The algorithm I use isn’t designed to create perfect symmetry because that’s not how death worked. I took yesterday off because I needed a break, and I thought it was over, but then I printed off my demographic target this morning, and I… I can’t face it, Marie.” He reached into his robe and pulled out a rumpled piece of A4, haphazardly folded. “Will you… Will you choose for me?” He extended the paper toward her with a shaking hand.

She took the page from him and unfolded it. The printout was a list of names and ages, complete with photographs. Every single one was a baby between nine and twelve months of age. Marie felt a visceral horror ripple through her, and when she looked up at Michael again it must have been written all over her face, because his crumpled. “The numbers are all off,” he whispered, speaking to his knees.

“Michael,” she whispered, but he didn’t respond.

Marie crumpled the paper in her hands and tossed it aside onto the sofa. She rose and moved to stand before him, and when he still didn’t acknowledge her, reached down and took his face between her hands, lifting it up until he was forced to look at her.

“Michael,” she whispered, “ _fuck_ the numbers. You don’t have to glean this way. You don’t have to listen to some statistic an algorithm spits out. You _can’t_. Look what it’s doing to you - you’re no use to anyone like this.”

He gazed at her for several moments, eyes bleaker than she’d ever seen them before, then abruptly threw his arms around her and buried his face against her middle. She felt the sobs as they wracked his body and curled her arms around him, cradling the back of his head and just holding him, feeling her own eyes prickle as he wept.

Eventually, when his shoulders had stopped shaking, he turned his face against her so he could speak. “I don’t know how to do it,” he whispered, voice thick. “I don’t know how to decide who to glean without the numbers. I can’t be instinctive like you; I don’t trust myself to be impartial without guidance.”

“Then change your system,” Marie murmured. “Get out of the city and use small-town demographics instead, use a smaller population sample that won’t be as affected by national figures. I don’t know how you do it, but change it: game the numbers for a while until they’ve had a chance to even themselves out. Let some other scythes do their jobs and don’t take on the whole weight of the world by yourself. No more children, Michael.”

He clung to her for a few moments more, then loosened his hold, pulling back far enough to look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed and his cheeks were still wet, but he looked better now. The pall had lifted. “I needed that,” he said. “Needed to hear that. Thank you.”

“That’s quite alright,” Marie whispered, running her fingers through his hair and smoothing it down. At the feel of it, he closed his eyes, leaning his head back and accepting her ministrations, then, after a time, cocking his ear ever so slightly.

“I’ve never been here before,” he murmured, keeping his eyes closed. “That sound, it’s wonderful. Soothing.” He was talking about the waterfall, and when he mentioned it Marie became aware of it too. She was so used to the sound that she barely even noticed it anymore, but he was right, it was soothing, a rushing white noise in which the splashes were only sometimes discernible. She let him enjoy it, carding her fingers through his hair for much longer than she needed to, and at length he sighed and opened his eyes.

“It’s like being washed clean, being here,” he said.

“Yes,” Marie agreed, smiling down at him. “I think that’s why I was drawn to it.”

“Will you give me a tour?” he asked.

She did, taking his hand and leading him through the house, showing him the library and the kitchen, the staircase to the river and the herb terrace where the greenery was part of the ceiling. She showed him the corner windows that could be opened to let the breeze through, and the place where the tree came right up through the floor. She showed him the room she’d converted into a training space and weapons den (though her collection was far less impressive than his), then led him up to the topmost level so he could see the guest bedroom and the view from the highest balcony. On their way back down, she stopped on the landing outside the master suite.

“And this is my room,” she said. “Would you like to see it?”

Wordlessly, Michael nodded, and she led him inside.

Marie thought she gained some understanding of mortal-age religion that afternoon, because being with him was like a baptism: they washed each other clean. She kissed the salt from his cheeks and he clung to her like a man rescued from drowning, hands sliding over her body with reverent need. She whispered his name and he dropped to his knees before her, burying his fists in the folds of her dress and kissing her belly and hips. When he lifted her skirt and went diving beneath it, it was like worship; he wrote prayers on her thighs with fingers and tongue. Her skirt fell down over him and she didn’t right it, let his mouth perform a secret communion and cupped the back of his veiled head.

Only when her knees began to tremble did she call him off, beckoning him up with an urgent whisper and tugging him back toward the bed. They shed their vestments, then, stripped right down to their humanity, and when she took him into her bed and her mouth it was a simple offering: _remember that you are not a monster but a man_.

He seemed to hear her, responded by threading his fingers into her hair and gasping her name, inhabited himself so fully that he was sweaty and shaking with it. And when she was satisfied, she rose up over him and brought them together, cleaving to him and urging him into movement. They rocked together, swayed, carried each other away, and when finally they crashed into their own white noise it left them both purified and profane.

“That was deliberate,” Michael whispered to her after, all tangled up in her legs and arms. “For both of us, that was.”

“Maybe,” Marie murmured in reply, “but I don’t care.”

* * *

They stopped pretending after that. Oh, they told themselves that they weren’t breaking any commandments, that they were just friends who went to bed together, people who understood each other in a world that so frequently and wilfully misunderstood them. And that was true, to some extent - being with each other reminded them that they were human, felt natural and right and true. It buoyed them up and kept them able to perform their duties properly - being together made them better scythes when they were apart.

And they weren’t married. No one could ever have thought they were. They didn’t live together and sometimes hardly even saw each other for months. Marie took a six-week trip to Chilargentine to visit Eva and they cooked together and spoke Spanic and Common on alternate days and gleaned at tourist destinations. She barely even thought about Michael on that trip, _barely even_ , so how could there be anything wrong?

But sometimes Michael stayed with her at Falling Water for up to a week at a time, and that was a different sort of together, the kind that involved her asking him what he wanted for dinner or just sharing space in the living room as they wrote in their journals. As the winter closed in they spent nights curled up by the fire together watching mortal-age films - Michael was fond of grizzled noir detectives, all gruff and noble in their unjust worlds - or else they wrapped themselves up and went for walks in the chilly air. Those outings inevitably ended with incredibly well-aimed snowball fights and kisses up against trees, and in those moments Marie felt heady and young. Sometimes Michael woke her in the morning by pressing his lips against the nape of her neck and sliding his fingers between her thighs, and sometimes she slipped into the shower with him and made the experience both warmer and wetter, and none of it felt particularly casual.

Once, he went into Mill Run to glean someone - “Just because you don’t glean in town doesn’t mean nobody should,” he’d said - and when he returned he brought groceries. She hadn’t expected that, and the sight of the bag brimming over with pomegranates and eggplant and artichokes made her suddenly queasy.

“The greengrocer asked me if I was staying here,” he said as he set the bag on the kitchen countertop. “She seemed to know just by what I had in my basket.”

“She would,” Marie said, but then had to ask: “It wasn’t her you gleaned, was it?”

Michael had started pulling vegetables out of the bag, but glanced up at the tone of her voice. “Would you be angry with me if I said that it was?” he asked.

Marie’s stomach dropped. “No,” she answered, and didn’t tell him.

He gazed at her steadily. “Liar,” he said, then gathered up the potatoes. He stowed them in the cupboard, then turned back to her. “But no, it wasn’t her. Actually, she’s mortal-born, so I praised her service and gave her immunity. Only one year, of course, not five, but...” He broke off when he registered the shock on Marie’s face. “You didn’t know?”

“You know I don’t investigate that sort of thing,” Marie said. She sounded snappy, she realized, but she still didn’t tell him, and she recognized two things that day. One: that being partnered with another scythe could indeed create complicated conflicts, and the other: that her relationship with Michael had gone way beyond friendly bedfellows, if it was too strange for her to even tell him that she had once kissed that mortal-born woman.

* * *

They didn’t tell anyone about their relationship, not even when directly asked.

“There’s something I’m desperately curious about,” Cervantes said to her when they had a moment of privacy at Harvest Conclave in the Year of the Elk, nearly fifteen months after their trip to Galveston. “That night in Texas: you vanished pretty quickly after we danced together, right after I told you Michael had gone to bed. Did you and he, well, _tango_?” He flashed her a sly grin.

“Of course not,” Marie replied, perhaps a little too quickly.

“You wouldn’t be the first two scythes to spend a night together, you know.” He leaned in closer to her. “I’m not ashamed to admit that I ended that evening in Scythe Ronaldo’s bed, and what a night it was - the man is as athletic as his namesake was, let me tell you.” Marie looked askance at him, but he didn’t stop. “And Faraday is a mighty fine specimen, if somewhat tragically straight. So, you know, I wouldn’t blame you if you had.”

“Miguel,” Marie snapped. “Would you drop it?”

“Alright, alright,” he responded, raising his hands in surrender. “I was just asking.”

But of course, Marie knew that she couldn’t answer, not now that it had gone so far.

* * *

It continued. How could it not, when it felt so good? The secret itself became a thrill, sneaking into each other’s hotel rooms after Conclave or, in the summer, taking incognito trips to seaside towns for dirty weekends. They bought ice creams with actual money and took long walks along beaches and piers, swam and laughed, and bickered over silly carnival games. Then, when the sun went down, they stretched each other out beneath ocean breezes and forgot who they were completely.

Marie didn’t know quite when it had happened, but it was during one of those trips that she realized that she was hopelessly, desperately in love.

Time passed quickly, as it was wont to do when one was immortal - or at least, that was what Marie assumed, because she couldn’t imagine mortal lives sliding by so quickly, and certainly she remembered her younger years lasting longer. When she thought back to her apprenticeship, for example, the year was large in her memory, and the two months at the end of it after she’d confessed her desire to Michael and he’d turned her down had felt like they lasted millennia. But now, in this glorious haze, months and seasons and years seemed to slide together in a blur.

Marie was aware that she was aging. She noticed that her hair had begun to come in silver again as it had in her late thirties the first time around, and when she went particularly long stretches without seeing Michael, she thought she could see his laugh lines becoming more rugged. She had no real concept of how long they’d been maintaining their secret life, though, not until she sat with Scythe Angelou during one Vernal Conclave.

The Tolling of the Bells was always a somber affair, but on that day, one particular name made Maya give a pained grunt, and she turned to glance meaningfully at Marie.

“Did you know that man?” Marie asked in a whisper, and Maya nodded.

“He was one of the mortal-born musicians who played at Ames’ party that night,” she replied.

“How is that possible?” Marie asked. “Did the World Council revoke Ames’ five-year immunity?” Marie had never known revoking immunity to be possible, but she also had no idea by what mechanism the High Blade had achieved her five-year promise.

Scythe Angelou just stared at her. “It’s been six years since we were in Texas, Marie.”

“Has it?” Marie asked wonderingly, and Maya patted her knee.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It was like that for me when I turned my first corner, too. You’ll start to feel your age again soon enough.”

* * *

Eventually, they got cocky - or sloppy, perhaps. They had a few near-misses. Once, at Falling Water, Michael very nearly walked in on a video conference Marie was having with the selection committee, and another time, she was moments away from exiting a publicar to visit him when his front door opened to discharge three robed guests. They were WestMerican junior scythes looking to relocate and shopping for a mentor, he told her later, once she had the publicar do a long lap of the block.

It was in the Year of the Meerkat that it finally came toppling down. There was, Marie supposed, a certain poetic irony in that - if she’d been alert and paying attention, it may never have happened, but then, if she hadn’t been slipping into someone else’s burrow in the first place, it never could have.

When it came time for Conclave, they always stayed in one of the least popular hotels in Fulcrum City - it wasn’t grand, and was in one of the worst locations, right in the interstice between an annoyingly long walk to the Capitol Building for the scythes who preferred to arrive on foot, and not far enough away for those who liked to turn up in limousines and draw plenty of attention along the way. Over the years, Marie and Michael had worked out a near-perfect room arrangement, too, always booking the same two rooms that were connected on different floors by a fire escape staircase that was consistently accessible but never used.

That year, however, there were a number of out-of-town guests who’d been invited to present information on their scythedoms in the name of inter-regional cooperation. Unlike the regulars, they didn’t seem to know which hotels were best avoided, a thing that Marie and Michael discovered when they tried to book their usual rooms and found them already spoken for. They had to go with different ones, and eventually managed to find a pair that were on opposite sides of an unfamiliar corridor. It was less than ideal, but still relatively safe - after all, they barely left the room they shared once they’d both arrived, and what were the chances that someone they knew would be happening by when one of them needed to flit across the corridor and return to their own?

Marie found out, of course. It was barely 5 am on the morning of Conclave when she slipped out of Michael’s room and back to her own - not an unusual time for scythes to be waking for a seven o’clock start, but far too early for her to expect to see anyone out and about.

But someone was. Marie had just closed Michael’s door and was pressing her thumb onto the reader on her own when she heard a pointed throat-clearing behind her.

Marie whirled around. She couldn’t have looked more like a guilty thing surprised if she’d tried, and when she saw who was standing there it couldn’t have been worse, short of it being the Supreme Grandslayer attended by a news camera, she supposed.

“Howdy,” Scythe Allen said. The greeting was friendly enough, but his eyes were cold.

“Hello,” Marie said, managing to recover her poise enough to be civil. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just in town for your Conclave,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe of the room he was outside. The door, Marie noticed, was cracked open, a strip of light visible from inside, and there wasn’t another room between his and Michael’s. He’d been right beside them all night.

His next words confirmed her worst suspicions. “Heard some interesting noises coming through my wall last night,” he said. “Checked to see who was in the room next door - thought I might glean them so I could get some sleep. Imagine my surprise when it turned out I was Scythe Faraday’s neighbor. I was mighty curious who was going to pop out of his room this morning.”

Marie was extremely grateful that she disliked this man so much, because her immediate reaction to his criticism was anger, not shame. She was grateful to Cervantes too, she realized, for giving her the strategy she needed to deal with this situation confidently. “And what of it?” she demanded, drawing herself up to her full height and turning to face him. “What business is it of yours if two scythes decide to spend a night together? It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened; there’s no commandment against it.”

She stared him dead in the eyes, and it definitely threw him. Several seconds of silence stretched out before he replied: “Maybe not, if it _was_ one night. But he was awful protective of you back in Texas; what’s your High Blade going to find if he investigates, I wonder?”

“Nothing even remotely worth his time,” Marie answered, but of course it was a bald-faced lie, and even as she entered her room and left him standing in the corridor, she knew it wouldn’t take much for him to call her bluff.

* * *

Conclave that day was twelve hours of torture. She couldn’t talk to Michael, wasn’t even game to make eye contact with him lest Scythe Allen infer the truth. During the breaks she had to pretend not to care who the man was talking to, though of course she was sneaking surreptitious glances the entire time. He did talk to the High Blade, but as he was Ames’ second underscythe, that wasn’t unusual, and she couldn’t see any particular pattern to the rest of his conversations. Even so, he walked with a swagger that suggested he was aware of her discomfort and was enjoying it, which didn’t bode well for the possibility of him letting the morning’s encounter slide.

The day was so unbearable that Marie left Fulcrum City as soon as it was over, unwilling to risk sneaking into Michael’s room again even to talk, and unable to face the night with him right across the hall from her but so completely, horribly off-limits. So she caught the train home and spent the night twisting herself into knots there instead, too terrified to even call lest Scythe Allen hear the phone ring through the wall.

She lasted until mid-afternoon the next day, then went to see him, reasoning that if the game was up, it was up, and she would rather be caught with him than have Michael open his door to the BladeGuard with no prior warning. He needed to know, and far better for it to come from her than anyone else.

He was back from Fulcrum City by the time she arrived, though apparently hadn’t been for long - his case was in the hall when she entered, still packed and waiting to be dismantled. She found him in the living room, sitting on the couch and sorting through some mail. He looked up when she entered the room, and smiled.

“Well hello,” he said. “I was wondering where you got to last night. I hoped you hadn’t met a dashing stranger and decided to throw me over.”

His expression was so beautiful, so open and devoid of concern that she couldn’t bear to tell him, couldn’t do anything but want him, because what if this was the only time they had left?

She crossed the room and crawled into his lap, slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him harder than she had in a long time. She kissed him like she’d been waiting years rather than barely more than a day, kissed him like her life depended on it. He responded immediately, hands sliding onto her hips, but when they broke apart his expression was surprised.

“Marie, what’s brought this on?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining, but…”

“Shh,” Marie whispered. “Don’t ask questions, please. Just…” She cupped his cheek in her hand, trailed her fingers over his lips. “Just be with me. _Please_.”

Michael blinked at her, gave a tiny nod, then opened his mouth and bent his head forward to close his lips around her fingers, sucking on them gently before catching her ring between his teeth and tugging it off. She turned her hand and he dropped the ring into her palm, then she felt him reach around behind her to remove his own.

“Just us, then,” he said, when they’d deposited the rings on a side table. “Nothing else.”

She kissed him again. This time, she tried to memorize it, from the exact shape of his lips (the bottom one thicker than the top) to the feel of his whiskers (softer than one might expect). She slipped her hands down onto his chest and plucked his shirt buttons open, slid inside and sculpted out the shape of him. She wanted to be able to hold all of this in her mind forever. Pushing both shirt and robe off his shoulders, she laid her lips down where they’d been, kissing her way along his collarbone and breathing in the cedarwood smell of him.

“Marie,” he whispered when she raised her head again, reaching for the clasps on her robe. As soon as he’d unfastened it, she shed it, then helped him remove her dress as well. She wanted as little between them as possible.

Her bra went next; he peeled it down over her shoulders with one hand even as the other quested beneath it, covering her breast with his palm and dragging a thumb across her nipple. Once the garment was removed, he slid her closer, curling an arm around her back and pulling her breasts against his mouth. He kissed them, lavishing attention, and she loved the way he loved her. She’d never thought them much, her breasts, but when his mouth moved over them it was devouring; his whiskers tickled her, his tongue circled and his lips sucked and caressed. He devoted time to her in a way that made her feel positively voluptuous, and would there ever be anyone who could love her like this again?

She curled her arms around his shoulders and shifted against him, rolling her hips and pushing herself into his cock. His mouth opened against her skin and she urged him up again, claimed another kiss from him as his hands settled on her hips once more. They rocked together for a time, his fingers gripping her skin and pulling her against him, her mouth coming down onto his shoulders and throat as she ground into him and listened to his rumbling breath. She could feel him hardening against her, his body expanding to fill the space between them. The heat between them grew and Marie drank it in until she was bursting, desperate to have him but wanting to draw the moment out as long as possible, to just exist with him in this liminal place where things were still uncomplicated need.

But Michael had ideas too, slipped his hand around to her backside and hooked a finger into the waistband of her underwear, tugging the fabric taut and dragging it against her cunt. She whined and his hand followed, slipping down and curling beneath her, sliding his fingers through her slick then pressing two of them inside her. Marie’s head righted, fell back, lolling on her shoulders as inarticulate noises whispered from her throat. She pushed herself into his hand, whimpered, mouth struggling to form syllables until she finally managed to utter the only word she wanted to say: “Michael.”

Things grew more urgent, then. Marie fumbled Michael’s fly open and freed his cock, wrapped her hand around it and gave it a stroke, but she’d barely touched him when he grunted and shook his head. “Can’t take it,” he muttered. “Need you now.” He tipped her sideways onto the couch and struggled out of his trousers, reached for her hips and tugged her underwear off. When they were both bare, he crawled back onto the couch again, grabbing hold of her ankle and tugging her toward him.

She was still on her side when he entered her, pinning one of her legs between his and tugging the other around his hip. His cock filled her immediately, sliding in deep, and as she twisted to face him her fingers curled around his forearm and held on tight. “ _Michael,_ ” she whispered, and he responded, “ _Marie_.”

They lost their words, then, voices stolen by movement and heat. He gripped her wrist where she held him and didn’t let go, his other hand dropping to stroke her knee and her thigh. She had some leverage in this position but not a whole lot, didn’t really mind - she had never been happier to be taken. She gripped his arm and squeezed herself around him, bit her lip and watched his eyes. She’d never been more seen than she was by him, and to her he revealed a passion that she couldn’t imagine anyone else had ever witnessed. Several different types of agony welled in her as her arousal grew, as his face contorted into the same expression it always did, the one that was both beautiful and ridiculous. They knew each other as they would never know anyone else.

Breathing grew shallow, rattled the air. Michael gripped her wrist and his bottom lip trembled, he dropped his hand between her legs and sought out the shape of her clit. His fingers drew circles and she felt herself rapidly climbing, twitching around him and adding a sort of whimpering cry to the chorus of heavy breathing and the slap of wet skin. He pushed her further, knew just what to do, pounding into her and pressing his fingers right up against her.

It didn’t take her long like that, and when she trembled and cried out she felt him shaking too, felt their hands grip each other tight as they rode the wave together, rising and crashing and breaking as one, even if it was onto cliffs.

They clung to each other after, hearts pounding. Marie drew Michael close and curled around him, wanting to feel their synchronicity as they cooled down. After a while, when their heartbeats had slowed against each other, she lifted her head, stroked Michael’s cheek and kissed his eyelids.

“Scythe Allen was in the room next door to you before Conclave,” she whispered. “He caught me sneaking back to my room in the morning.”

Michael sighed, long and low. He opened his eyes. “I thought it might have been something like that,” he said.

“I don’t think it’s very likely that he’ll turn a blind eye,” she said. “The man has thought me a commandment-breaking murderess for years; no doubt he’s decided I’m a shameless hussy now, too.”

Michael stroked her arm. “If they investigate, they’ll find us equally culpable. The Thunderhead definitely has more footage of me visiting you than it does the opposite.”

“How long do you think we have?” she asked.

“It depends how thorough they want to make their case,” he said. “If they’re content with clandestine visits, maybe twenty-four hours? If they want to follow us on our incognito weekends, probably a little longer.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s probably foolish to hope that they’ll deal with it regionally, but that would be better for us. If they send us before the World Council, well. The Grandslayers could strip us of our robes and rings, but that would allow us to run away and be together, which I can’t imagine would sit well with them. They might decide to glean us, too.”

It was the same thought Marie had had, during the extra night she’d been able to fret about it. She couldn’t imagine there’d been a scenario she hadn’t thought of, and not a single one of them was good.

But they were here now. They still had this moment, curled up with each other warm and sweat-damp. Marie found Michael’s hand with hers and threaded their fingers together, leaned forward and kissed him, tender and sweet.

“Well,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his, “whatever happens, I want you to know that I have loved you. These seven years have been the best of my life.”

“For me, too,” he replied, curling his arm around her and holding her fast. “I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

They lay there until the air chilled and the room grew dark.

* * *

In the end, they had about thirty-six hours. Marie did not go home. Now that the writing was on the wall, they decided to face their fate together, passed the time in Michael’s home where all this had begun.

Marie was proud of them. For all their anxious waiting, they never once discussed self-gleaning like literature’s famous star-crossed lovers, nor running away together and attempting to avoid retribution for their crime. When the BladeGuard came, they met them at the door, robes pressed and rings polished, and they went without a fuss.

They were ushered into separate cars for the journey and Marie sat in silence, watching the passing scenery. Only when they drove right past the train station did she address her captors.

“Are we not going Fulcrum City, then?” she asked.

One of the BladeGuards turned to her. They’d been respectful so far, and this one’s tone remained so now, though his lips did curl in the faintest hint of a smile. “No, we’re going to the airport,” he told her. “You two have a date on Endura.”

* * *

Marie knew from experience that Endura was magnificent, but she had never previously found it imposing. On her other visits, the towers that ringed the island’s heart had looked like the glittering points of a crown, but now they seemed to loom, the admonishing fingers of Grandslayers who were already shaming them for what they had done.

Marie and Michael were escorted directly to the council complex, where World Supreme Blade Prometheus met them in person, along with two other members of the World Council. The Supreme Grandslayer - a towering hulk of a man well-suited to his name - said little to them on that first meeting, merely directing that Marie and Michael be separated and questioned. Michael was escorted away in the company of Supreme Blade Archimedes - a legendary figure in his own right who Marie could not imagine being stuck in a room with - while Marie was led into an antechamber by Supreme Blade Kahlo, who was the youngest and most recently appointed member of the World Council. Marie couldn’t help but think that she had been given the easier deal.

She still told the woman everything. In the time they’d had to plan, Marie and Michael had both decided that it would be pointless to lie, that the evidence the scythedom would have been able to collect from the backbrain would have told the story in all but its most sordid details anyway. The best thing they could do, they reasoned, was confess it all, express regret, and hope that the Council would follow the spirit of the commandments themselves and show mercy.

Once the confessions were done, they were brought back together. Supreme Blade Prometheus had them ensconced in a meeting room, seated awkwardly at opposite ends of a large table, and there, flanked by Kahlo and Archimedes, he pronounced his judgment.

“What you two have done is a shameful thing,” he said. “You have broken the ninth commandment in every way but the most literal. You will not be dealt with gently, nor will you be dealt with quietly. You will both remain on Endura for two months. You will not be in contact. You will attend World Conclave in July and you will confess your crimes before your peers and superiors. The World Council will announce your punishment then.”

Well, Marie thought, _that_ was going to be an exercise in humiliation.

* * *

She was right. Those two months on Endura were some of the longest of her life. It was ironic, given how quickly her seven years with Michael had passed, but in those two months she had to rethink her theory about immortality and time, because every day seemed to drag on for a lifetime.

She was not a prisoner. Her home during that time was a well-appointed underwater hotel room in one of Endura’s many such facilities, from which she could come and go as she pleased. The Grandslayers’ only stipulation was that she and Michael did not contact each other, and she had no doubt at all that they were being monitored to ensure they complied.

She could come and go as she pleased, but frequently didn’t, finding the gaiety of Endura a little too much to bear in her current state of mind. Whenever she went out, she encountered vacationing scythes in states of revelry and flirtation, and it only made her sense of isolation all the more acute.

Then there were the looks. If she’d had any doubts that news of hers and Michael’s affair and subsequent censure would spread through the scythedom like wildfire, the looks she received when she went among other scythes thoroughly disabused her of them, especially given the whispered conversations that usually went along with said glances. People’s reaction to her ranged from uncomfortable amusement to outright disgust, and it was a challenge to endure. Marie had been the focus of mixed attention before, of course, but back then it hadn’t felt so personal.

There was some support, however. Cervantes visited, bringing her news and well-wishes from MidMerica, and when he arrived he gave her the kind of hug that made her realize just how lonely and touch-starved she was.

“I’m sorry,” she said, after clinging to him for far too long and finding that she had to wipe her eyes afterward. “They’ll be asking me if I’m sleeping with you next.”

Cervantes smiled. “Not a chance,” he said, rubbing her shoulder. “Everyone knows I’m as gay as they come.”

Marie laughed even as more tears spilled from her eyes. “Oh, Miguel, it’s good to see a friendly face,” she told him. “Everyone here keeps looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.”

“I hear they do that in Tasmania,” he said, and Marie laughed again, though the sound that came out of her this time sounded a little bit hysterical. Cervantes waited for her to recover before he continued. “They’re looking at you like that because you’re making them feel guilty, and that’s an uncomfortable thing to sit with. Aside from those in our number who don’t want to have sex at all - and even some of them if they’re not aromantic - every single one of us has had at least one relationship that bent the ninth commandment in one way or another. You’re only different because you got caught.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Marie whispered.

“Don’t be,” Cervantes said, with a little smile. “If you’d told me, it might have seemed like I was covering for you. As it was, I only ever suspected, and no one can censure me for not reporting my fantasies.”

“Your fantasies?” Marie asked, arching a brow.

“Well, they might have featured Michael more heavily than they featured you,” he admitted. “No offense.”

It was a comment clearly designed to make her laugh again, but instead, the mention of Michael’s name caused a twist in her gut. “Have you seen him?” she asked quietly.

“I have,” Cervantes replied, but was clearly hesitant to say any more.

“I know you can’t,” Marie said, “but just… Is he holding up okay?”

“He’s holding,” Miguel said. “About as well as you, I’d say. You two really did a number on each other, didn’t you?”

Marie nodded, unable to speak lest the tears start again.

Cervantes seemed to understand, reached out and took both her hands in his. “We’re with you,” he said. “I’d love to say everyone is, but you know how the scythedom is. Everyone who _matters_ is with you - both of you. You messed up, but you’re owning it now - facing something most of us probably deserve, if we’re honest with ourselves. They’re making an example of you, and the best thing you can do is walk into that Conclave with your head held high and accept whatever punishment they have for you.”

“Even if it’s gleaning?” she asked.

Cervantes smiled sadly. “Even then,” he said. “It’s no less than we ask of the public, after all. But,” he added, “I’m sure it won’t be. Loving someone is hardly the worst crime you could commit. I’m sure you’ll be back with us in no time.”

* * *

She would be, but it turned out Michael wouldn’t.

“You are each sentenced to seven deaths,” Supreme Grandslayer Prometheus declared before the assembled elegy of High Blades and scythes from around the world. “You shall each die once for every year you spent breaking our commandments. When you are revived for the final time, you will retain your robes and rings, but you will be forbidden to have any contact for seventy years. Scythe Faraday, there are three WestMerican junior scythes who have expressed interest in having you as a mentor. You will relocate to the WestMerican region for the duration of your seventy-year censure, and you will mentor these scythes, along with any others who ask. You will spend your time reminding yourself what it means to be committed to the commandments. Scythe Curie, you will remain a MidMerican scythe. Are the Grandslayers in agreement on this verdict?”

As the World Council sounded their agreement one after the other and the verdict sunk in, Marie nearly sagged with relief. They were going to remain scythes, and they were not to be gleaned. Seven deaths could be endured - it was a fair punishment for their crime. Seventy years was also reasonable, though it pained Marie to imagine it. The rest of it, though, that seemed a little unbalanced - what would Marie have to do to renew her commitment to the commandments? Like when they’d first been interrogated, she felt like she was being let off easily.

She didn’t have time to think about it, though, because as soon as the last Grandslayer said “aye”, Prometheus spoke again.

“It is done,” he said. “Your sentence begins now.” And he reached into his robe and produced a flintlock pistol, then executed the first of their seven death sentences right then and there.

* * *

Over the course of the next two weeks, Marie was drowned and strangled, eviscerated and electrocuted. Each of her seven death sentences was carried out by a different member of the World Council, and, though they were performed without unnecessary cruelty, each one was agonizing in its own way. After each revival she was given only as much time as absolutely necessary to recover, then she was hauled off to face the next horror. By the time Supreme Blade Kahlo pushed her off the top of Founder’s Tower, the woman found her job easy - Marie could barely stand upright.

She was given slightly longer to recover from her sixth death - enough time that her legs ceased to wobble and her hands no longer shook when she tried to eat the terrible food the Enduran revival clinic provided (there were no elaborate ice-cream sundaes when scythes were running the show). Marie was grateful for the respite, but it concerned her as well - what terrible spectacle did they have planned for her seventh and final execution?

There wasn’t one. When it came, the final blow was dealt by North Merica’s Supreme Blade, Eliot, and like his patron historic, the man was more fond of the whimper than the bang for acts that ended one’s world.

It was early morning when Marie was delivered to the North Merican scythedom’s administrative tower, and both the time and the location made her wonder exactly where her execution fit into the Supreme Blade’s schedule - after ‘breakfast’, perhaps, but before his mid-morning jog? One would have to do something in the intervening time, she supposed. Wouldn’t want to end up with indigestion.

She was taken to a sub-level of the building, but it wasn’t to a room with an ocean vista. Instead, when she stepped out of the elevator, she found her surroundings stark - white concrete and fluorescent lighting. What the purpose of this level was, she couldn’t guess. The space almost seemed unfinished, so devoid was it of decoration, but there were no telltale signs of renovation either, just long, bright corridors with blank doors that offered no clues as to what lay beyond.

It felt like a dream, almost, except that the BladeGuard leading her seemed to know where he was going. They followed the corridor around a corner to a door that seemed to Marie to be exactly the same as the rest, but in front of which her guard stopped and knocked.

“Enter,” came a voice on the other side. The guard opened the door, stepped aside, and gestured Marie through.

The first thing she noticed was that Michael was there. The room, like the corridor outside, was stark and white and strangely elongated; against its backdrop Michael’s ivory robe barely made a contrast, but still he was the first thing she saw. He was slumped in a chair, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, and for a moment Marie thought he was already dead, that she had arrived ahead of schedule before his body could be removed. Then he lifted his head, and their eyes met.

He looked almost as haggard as she felt. Marie didn’t know if he’d been killed in the same six ways she had or if the Grandslayers had devised different methods for each of them, but either way, the repeated death and revival had taken a similar toll on him as it had on her. His eyes, though, were warm; they fixed on her like a starving man might fixate on food, although there was something else in their depths that Marie couldn’t quite read.

She wanted to go to him. Every muscle in her body ached with it, and with the restraint it took her to resist. She let her eyes speak it, though, or tried to - she had no idea what she looked like in that moment.

Then Supreme Blade Eliot turned around. “Scythe Curie,” he said, “good morning.”

Marie tore her gaze away from Michael to focus on the Grandslayer. “Good morning, Your Exalted Excellency,” she said. The North Merican Supreme Blade was a tall, thin man who wore robes of yellow - not a sunny shade but a sickly one, reminiscent of bile or noxious fumes. She supposed he was trying to evoke the idea of a wasteland and remind people of his patron historic’s most famous work, but it certainly wasn’t a shade Marie would have chosen to wear for the rest of time, whatever its significance.

“Come here,” he instructed, and Marie obeyed. When she’d entered the room he’d had his back to her, attention focused on a table that stood against the wall, and now that she approached she could see what he’d been looking at.

The table was laid out with weapons: blades both large and small, along with several pistols, an electric baton and a mace, a hammer and a crossbow. As she approached, he gestured to the array, inviting her to inspect them.

“You may choose your weapon,” he said.

He was going to let her choose the method of her own execution? That was easy. She reached for the gun that would ensure her the quickest, most painless death, then stopped. _Your weapon_ , he’d said, not _my weapon_. A scythe who named himself for a poet surely wouldn’t use his words carelessly. Why was Michael here?

“What for?” Marie asked, though by the time he answered, she already knew.

“You will be performing Scythe Faraday’s final execution,” he said.

Marie felt something take hold of her gut, like if she turned around she might find that Eliot had already sneakily slit her back open and reached inside her to grip her intestines. “Why?” she asked. It would be futile to protest or beg, but she thought she deserved an answer to her question.

“You have stretched your vows to their breaking point,” he said. “It is fitting that you should reaffirm your commitment to them in the same way you showed it the first time.”

And there it was, the other shoe. She hadn’t been let off easily after all. They’d just been waiting.

Marie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then, opening them again, she selected a dagger from the table.

Michael watched her approach. She’d thought her feet steady enough when she woke that morning, but she wobbled now, almost stumbling as she made her way down the long room. Her hands, too, were trembling, and she made a conscious effort to steady them - it wouldn’t do to have shaking hands for what she was about to do.

Michael watched her, and her breath faltered. A sob tore its way out of her body and she walked on through it, felt hot tears tumble down her cheeks and didn’t bother to wipe them away.

It seemed to take her a long time to reach him, but when she did, it felt too soon. His eyes followed her approach so that by the time she stood before him he was sitting with his head tipped back, throat bared. She could see the pulse beating there, harder than usual, but he was otherwise completely still.

“Michael,” she whispered, and her voice shook, wet with the tears in her throat. The knife felt hot in her hand.

He looked at her, and his gaze was open and accepting, as guileless as it had been when they’d last made love. Marie didn’t know if that was better or worse than if he’d shown her fear or reproach - this act, she knew, was something she’d have to carry with her, and would it now be superimposed on top of all her happy memories?

She supposed that was the point.

But they couldn’t take everything, couldn’t take her compassion or her love for him. She reached out and cupped his cheek, felt him lean into her touch. His eyes closed for the briefest moment, then opened again, watching her steadily.

“Michael,” she whispered again. She knew she would never be able to speak his name in that way again.

“Marie,” he replied, barely a breath. “It was worth it.”

“It was,” she agreed, then leaned forward and slipped the knife in between his ribs. Her hand didn’t shake until she withdrew it.

A red statin bloomed across Michael’s robe. The light left his eyes quickly. He slumped forward as the knife fell from Marie’s fingers, and she reached out to catch him, but before she could she heard the ratchet of the crossbow, and then the bolt plunged in between her shoulder blades. She fell forward, stumbling over Michael, and as she landed on top of him she had time to think _seven deaths; it’s done_.

It had been worth it, definitely, but even as she died she could feel the heat draining from Michael’s body too, and she knew that it would never be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content info: canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, temporary character death.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings for this chapter.

**v.**

In the months after Michael, Falling Water felt empty. Oh, it wasn’t quiet - her home was never quiet - but for the first time since she’d moved in she became aware of just how large the space was with only her in it.

She knew that this hollow feeling was at least partly psychological, and she did try to fill it. She constructed elaborate meals with complicated lists of ingredients, wrote treatises in her journal, and taught herself Germanic for no other reason than that her grandmother had come from the region. All of her efforts only made her feel lonelier, though. She had no one to share her fancy dinners with, after all, and the journal was just an obligation. Learning Germanic only reminded her how long it had been since she’d seen her family. Her relationship with them was strained at best.

It was exactly the kind of period in a scythe’s life when one might consider taking an apprentice, but Marie found the thought of doing such a thing to ease her own misery frankly abhorrent. She had made her choice long ago, but she’d be damned if she’d invite someone else to share the same eternal loneliness. No. Marie knew that she was capable of pulling herself out of this rut.

The idea came to her by accident, when she gleaned a man who happened to be in MidMerica on business. His home and his family turned out to be all the way on the other side of the continent, in WestMerica, and Marie was hesitant to go there. She didn’t want there to be any suggestion that she might be attempting to flout the Council’s ruling about not being in contact with Michael, so she called the man’s family instead.

“I’m afraid I can’t make the journey to WestMerica at the moment to grant you immunity,” she told the man’s wife after she broke the news, “but you are all invited to my home, Falling Water, at your earliest convenience. I will arrange one of the scythedom’s planes for charter.”

The family came the following evening, and Marie cooked them a meal. The man’s wife and three grown children were awkward at first, wearing their new immunity uncomfortably, but Marie sat them down in front of a beef casserole and asked them about their departed’s life. As they spoke, they seemed to unburden themselves - all but the youngest son, who even at the end of the meal seemed resentful.

Marie addressed him directly: “You seem to have something to say. Please feel free to say it.”

“I just don’t know how you live with yourself,” the young man said, much to his mother’s horror. His face was twisted in a scowl. “My father never did anything but live a good life. Why did he deserve to be gleaned?”

“He didn’t,” Marie answered simply. “No one _deserves_ to be gleaned. In the mortal age, death was often random and senseless, but while I do select my gleaning subjects in a somewhat random pattern, I can assure you that my choices are never made lightly.” She reached into her robe and produced the dagger she had used to glean the man’s father, which she had secreted away for exactly this eventuality. “If it would make you feel better, you may take my life in kind.” She set the knife down on the table and pushed it toward him.

He stared at the thing as if she’d just produced a live snake. “What?” he asked, voice trembling.

“It would be only fair,” Marie said. “A life for a life. I’ll be revived, of course, but if it would help you heal, I give my permission.”

The young man stared at the blade for some time, then shook his head. “No. No thanks.” 

“Right,” Marie said, retrieving the blade and stowing it back in her pocket. “Dessert, then?”

It became a regular thing. Marie enjoyed cooking for people and she found that she enjoyed hearing stories about the lives of the people she gleaned, too. She had attended funerals in the past, of course, but she had never felt particularly comfortable doing it - always feeling like the looming spectre of death intruding on a family’s grief. That was an important feeling to sit with, sometimes, but she found her new solution more elegant - she still had to face the families and their emotions, but she was also able to participate in the mourning ritual and truly understand what the people she gleaned had meant to the people in their lives. The constant stream of visitors to Falling Water helped her feel less lonely, too.

That wasn’t to say that all the dinners were pleasant. Some were tear-filled and some were mostly silent. Some families told stories of relationships that were broken beyond repair, and some sat before her and had to endure the awkwardness of realising that they were so distant from each other that they didn't have much to say. A few people took Marie up on her offer of taking her life - and on those occasions she would never know whether the fathers or daughters or partners found the closure they were looking for - but it was much more common for people to decline. Usually, the offer and refusal marked a turning point in the evening, a moment of understanding between her and the grieving family that taking a life was no simple, careless task. People usually left her home satisfied, if not always smiling.

Marie kept a record of the meals she cooked for the families, a recipe book that also sometimes became her journal entry for the day. She tried to create something a little different for every family, and succeeded for over a year. When she realized that she had filled 365 pages with different recipes, she circled back to the beginning, making that part of the ritual, too. It helped her remember the stories of her gleaned and their families - when she prepared Chicken Alfredo for the eight children of the mother she gleaned that day, she recalled the life of the young woman outlived by her new wife and her sister the year before. By the time she had circled back through her book five times, Marie thought she must have seen almost every configuration of family there was, and almost every kind of reaction to grief, as well.

But of course, it was always possible to be surprised.

The man arrived at Falling Water in a white open-topped 20th Century Corvette. It was a cheerful, breezy sort of car, but the same could not be said of him when he approached her front door. Marie had gleaned his father that morning, and he carried himself with the same rigid gait that many did when they'd just lost a loved one. The stance telegraphed his pain, disorienting in its intensity, and as he approached her door he seemed to lurch under the weight of his grief.

"Scythe Curie," he said when he reached her.

"Mr. Gettinger," she replied, "welcome to Falling Water." She extended her hand, not to shake his but to present her ring. He knelt to kiss it, and when he rose again she asked: "Will your sister be joining us?" He'd mentioned having one on the phone.

"No," he said. "I did ask, but she's a Tonist, so she said no."

"I see," Marie said. "Well, do come in." She led the man into her living room. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Oh,” he said, looking relieved, “yes, please.”

Marie smiled. “What would you like? I’ve a bottle of red that will go with the meal quite nicely, or some whiskey, if you prefer.”

“Wine will be fine,” he said. “If I start drinking whiskey, I might never stop.”

Marie went to fetch it, returning with the bottle and two glasses. “I don’t usually drink with the families of my gleaned,” she told him as she poured, “but it seems irresponsible to let you have all of this yourself when you’re driving an off-grid car.”

He cracked his first smile since arriving, small but real. “It has a navigation system,” he said, “but I rarely use it.”

“It’s quite a machine,” Marie said, glad to have found a topic that put him at ease.

He ran his fingers through sandy-blond hair. “It’s my business,” he said. “I restore antique cars. Dad got me into it, actually. He had a Cadillac Eldorado when I was little. He used to tinker with it on the weekends, and he taught me the basics. I loved it so much I made it my profession. It seems to me that there aren’t many people these days who can say that they’re truly passionate about their work, but he gave me that.”

“Well,” Marie said, smiling as she handed him his glass, “a toast to your father’s powers of inspiration, then.” She raised her glass to him, and he touched his against it before taking a hearty sip. There were tears in his eyes when he lowered the glass, and Marie reached for the bottle to give her gaze somewhere else to be for a moment, wanting to give him the chance to compose himself. “Please, come through, Mr. Gettinger,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the dining room.

“Seth,” he replied. “Call me Seth. I’m not quite ready to step into Dad’s shoes just yet.”

“Seth, then,” Marie said.

The dining table was set for three, but Marie cleared away the extra place as they entered the room - it wouldn’t do to feel like there was a ghost at the table. The dinner was already waiting, three covered dishes sitting on warming pads. As Seth sat down, Marie removed the lids. Tonight’s offering was number 72 in her book, Salisbury steak, accompanied by green beans with garlic, and creamy mash. She slid two serving spoons into the main dish and tilted them in Seth’s direction.

“So,” she said, settling herself in her chair as he reached for the spoons, “tell me about your father. Are you and your sister his only two children?”

It was an unusual situation for her to only be sharing a meal with one person, especially given the circumstances. Seth’s father, Richard Gettinger, had been a little older than Marie, born solidly within what was considered to be the first post-mortal generation. It was very common for such individuals to have half a dozen children by the time they encountered Marie, and for Marie to have to select which loved ones most qualified for immunity under the commandments. Seth, however, hadn’t mentioned anyone but his sister, and he didn’t seem very old himself. Marie estimated his age to be a natural thirty, or at least somewhere in that decade.

Seth spooned two of the Salisbury steaks onto his plate, along with a generous helping of gravy. “We are,” he said. “Dad didn’t meet my Mom until later in life. He said he never wanted to settle down before then. He spent a lot of his life traveling.”

“Where to?” Marie asked.

“Everywhere,” Seth said, reaching for the sides. “EuroScandia, PanAsia, Africa, Australia. I think Antarctica was one of the last places he saw before he met Mom, because it wasn’t really settled when he was young. He had a _lot_ of stories.”

“I’d love to hear some of them,” Marie said, taking the serving spoons once he was finished with them.

Seth smiled sadly. “I‘ll never be able to tell them the way he did,” he said, “but I did like the one about the Australian girls. He always told me that one when I’d been dumped, or tried to impress someone and failed.”

“How did that go?” Marie asked, helping herself to mashed potato.

“He was in the Australian outback, ‘about fifty miles south of the arse end of nowhere’, as he always put it - and he _always_ tried to do the accent. Anyway, here he was, this fancy Merican, well-traveled, thought he was all that, you know? So he walks into this pub and there are three local girls there, and he thinks they probably haven’t seen any guys who weren’t local for years, so he decides to try his luck. Well, he says, not one but _all three_ of them liked him, bought him beers, played pool with him. He thought he was in for the best night of his life. And then he woke up in the morning in the desert. They’d taken everything - his money, his phone, his _clothes_ \- but they left him a hat with a fly net for his face, and enough water so he could walk to the next town.”

Marie couldn't help but laugh, although she pressed a knuckle against her mouth a moment later to stop the sound. “That’s awful,” she said, when she'd regained her composure. 

“It always put whatever woes I was having into perspective,” Seth said. “Whenever he started in on it, I used to pretend he’d never told me before. I’m sure he knew he had, but he was like that - the perfect storyteller. I think he had lots he didn’t tell me, too, though - I got the impression that he was pretty loose in those days, sowed his wild oats.”

“I can imagine,” Marie said. “I think we were all a bit impetuous in those early immortal days.”

“Did you grow up then, too?” Seth asked.

“Yes,” Marie answered. “Not as early as your father, but near enough.”

“And what kind of things did you get up to?” He seemed to ask the question without thinking, because Marie saw him remember who he was talking to and what context they were in in the moment that followed. His cheeks colored and his eyes dropped to his plate. He cut a quick slice of his meat and stuffed it into his mouth. “This is good,” he said, when he’d almost but not quite finished chewing.

Marie smiled. “Thank you.” She took a sip of her wine. “And I got up to a lot of things that I wouldn’t do today, but they probably weren’t as fun as what you’re imagining.”

“Wasn’t,” Seth murmured, the word choking out. He took a swallow of his own drink to get his voice back. “Wasn’t imagining anything.”

Marie’s smile widened. “It’s alright,” she said. “You can ask me anything you like. I can’t promise that I’ll answer, but I can promise that I won’t be offended.” She took a bite of her own meal to give him the chance to think of a real question he’d like to ask. People often wanted to know about their loved ones’ last words, or were curious about some other aspect of their gleanings.

But Seth seemed to interpret the offer rather differently. “Why lavender?” he asked when she looked up at him again. “How did you pick that color for your robe?”

Marie blinked. It had been a very long time since anyone had asked her about that; it had been a very long time since she’d even thought about it. But there was no reason for her not to answer. “It was my grandmother’s favorite flower. She wore the color often, and usually smelled like lavender, too. I don’t go that far, but I chose the color in her honor. I’ve never had any regrets. I mean, people _will_ give me gifts in lavender, which I wouldn’t always choose, but I suspect that would happen whatever color I wore.”

“So you don’t have everything custom-designed to match you robes?” he asked.

Marie smiled. “No. Not on purpose, anyway. What color was your father’s Cadillac?”

“Powder blue,” he told her, then launched into a story about the first time the vehicle had needed a tire changed. “He decided he’d teach me how to do it, took all the equipment out and showed me how it all worked, but then he let me figure it out for myself. He was big on that. I made the same mistake everyone does, of course - jacked the car up before I tried to remove the wheel nuts, which doesn’t work, and then…" He broke off as his voice cracked, sniffled and lowered his eyes, lifted up his napkin to dab at them. It took him a few moments to get his breathing under control. "Sorry," he said, voice thick. 

Marie shook her head as she finished a mouthful. “It’s quite alright,” she replied.

Seth held his napkin over his mouth as he cleared his throat, then rearranged it back in his lap. When he looked up at her again, he'd composed himself. “Are you interested in cars?” he asked.

“I can’t say I’ve ever really thought about them much,” Marie admitted, accepting the conversational redirection. “I usually just take publicars. Which probably isn’t my best option, now that I think about it, living out here. I often have to wait a while for them to arrive.”

Seth smiled. “Oh, there’s nothing that beats off-grid.” Then he peered at her. “How did you come to live out here?”

Marie told him, and they continued in that vein until their plates were clean and their wine needed refilling. She asked him about his father and he responded with a story about the time they rescued a dog from a storm drain, and he followed up by asking her whether she'd ever had any pets. The more she learned about the relationship he’d had with his father, the more keenly she felt remorse for having brought it to an end. At the same time, she shared more about herself than she had with anyone other than Michael in years - and not even Michael had asked her what her favorite travel destination was, because with him it would have felt too much like making plans. With Seth, however, the conversation felt unguarded despite their context. It was by turns serious and light - in one moment punctuated by laughter, then growing heavy when he spoke of his father’s distress when his sister had departed their family to join a tone cult.

“And it was hardly the worst thing she could have done,” Seth said; “I had some friends in high school who went _seriously_ Unsavory after we graduated, so I know what bad looks like, but Dad still seemed to take it as a personal failing. She joined one of those orders that travels around looking for the great resounding, or whatever they call it, so I think that’s why it hit him so hard - she inherited his wanderlust, but channeled it into _that_.”

“It can be difficult to accept,” Marie said. “I had a brother who went the same way.”

“Had?” Seth asked. “Don’t a scythe’s family receive immunity for life?”

“For as long as their scythe is alive, yes. But this was before. He’d turned off his nanites and took a blow to the head, died from his injuries and was burned by his order before he could be revived.” She reached across the table for the bottle of wine and refilled both their glasses, emptying the bottle.

“That’s awful,” Seth said. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Marie replied, which was her standard response to such things. She took a very long sip of her wine.

“Is that…” he ventured, “Is that why you became a scythe?”

Marie smiled wryly. “So I could hunt down other people’s family members, you mean?”

Seth picked up his glass and cradled it. “I didn’t say that. I meant so that your own family wouldn’t lose anyone else.”

Marie gazed at him. He was astute for a thirty-something. “Yes,” she admitted, “though I’m sure that isn’t much comfort to you.”

“How do you decide?” he asked. “How do you choose who to glean?”

Marie took a breath. That was a question very few people asked, and she never volunteered that information. But it wasn’t a question she refused to answer, either. “I glean people that I sense are ready to go, in some way. I look for signs of a lack of vitality, people who’ve lost the will to live and are simply existing instead. You might disagree that your father was like that, and I may well be wrong, but I have to use some metric for selection, so that’s the judgment I make.”

Seth was silent for a while. He sipped his wine and Marie could see him mulling her answer over in his head. At length, he spoke again: “I think you’re right. You haven’t asked about my mother, but she left him eight years ago. They’d lived fifty years together and she wanted a change. It was relatively amicable, but he was never really the same afterward - I think she was the only woman he ever really loved. I assumed he’d get over it eventually, meet someone else and move on, but maybe he never would have.”

“Or maybe I just caught him in the middle of a cycle,” Marie said, pushing her chair out gently. “You’re well within your rights to be angry with me for that.” Rounding the table, she reached into her robe and laid her push-knife in front of him. She leaned against the edge of the table. “That was the blade I used to take his life. You may use it on me if you wish.”

Seth laid his wine glass down and stared at the blade, wide-eyed. “Is that really all it took?” he whispered.

The blade was only two inches long. Marie had used it rather than her dagger because Richard Gettinger had been a large man, and it had been the easier way to ensure a quick and relatively painless death. Marie didn’t share that information, just reached around the back of her head and gathered her hair up, pulling it over one shoulder to expose her throat and hint at the method she had used. “Human life can be remarkably fragile,” was all she said.

Seth reached out and took the knife in his hand. He turned it over, settling it between his fingers and curling them around it experimentally. He looked up at her, studying the curve of her throat and letting several seconds of charged silence stretch between them. “Does it feel light to you?” he asked her.

“I never use a weapon lightly,” she answered quietly.

He turned his hand over and deposited the blade back on the table. “Then neither will I,” he said.

“Alright,” Marie murmured, and removed the blade from the table. Seth glanced down at his hands, which were shaking, pulled them into his lap and smoothed some non-existent wrinkles out of his trousers. When he looked back up at her, he seemed to have steadied himself, but his eyes were uncertain - there was no natural progression of conversation from here. 

But Marie knew the steps. “Would you like some chocolate mousse?” she asked.

Seth grinned in relief. “Yes, please,” he said.

Marie pushed herself away from the table and went to fetch it. The mousse, which she'd prepared in individual glasses, was two-toned, dark on the bottom and milk on top. She’d shaved curls of white chocolate onto its surface for decoration, and when she returned to the dining room and set one of the glasses in front of Seth, he glanced up at her and smiled slyly. “This looks amazing,” he said. “Do you always wait to serve dessert until after you’ve given people the chance to kill you?”

Marie felt the change in mood immediately. It was normal for a family to go from shell-shocked and stiff during the meal to more relaxed during dessert, but Seth had been open before. Now that the rituals had been observed, he seemed positively flirtatious. Marie wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it, but she usually let the family set the mood for the evening, so she decided to play along.

“Of course I do,” she said, circling back around the table to set her own serving down. “I’m happy to prepare a grieving family a meal, and if it makes someone feel better to take my life I’ll accept it willingly, but I’ll be damned if you get to kill me _and_ eat one of my desserts.” She smiled as she retook her seat.

Seth laughed. “The Grande Dame of Dessert,” he said, and lifted his spoon. When he took a mouthful, the groan that sounded in his throat was almost obscene. “This _is_ amazing. You know, you’re not at all what I was expecting when you invited me here.”

Marie got that a lot, but she never stopped being curious about people’s preconceptions. “What did you expect?” she asked, picking up her own spoon.

“To be terrified,” Seth admitted. “Your reputation is fearsome. But you’re not that, you’re…” He struggled to find the word.

“Human?” Marie supplied, with a quirk of the lips.

“Not just that,” Seth said. “You're definitely more genuine than that figure of legend, but I can see her in you - I wouldn’t like to cross you, that’s for sure. You’re more than the legend, though, not less. Magnetic; that’s the word I’m looking for.”

It was a flattering thing to hear, especially from someone in his position. It warmed her in a way she hadn’t felt since Michael. She couldn’t resist responding: “Who am I attracting, do you think?”

Seth just smiled.

They ate the rest of the dessert in silence, at ease with each other after their long conversation. There was tension in the air, but it felt more like possibility - a thing spreading roots, restrained by the taboo of their situation but growing underneath. Marie had no idea if it would break through or bottom out.

She considered Seth as she ate her mousse, twirling her spoon around and sneaking glances at him now that she was imagining him in this new light. He was definitely attractive - lithe, with a kind of soft athleticism that spoke of someone who did a physical job but didn’t necessarily train outside of it. His sandy hair was obviously natural - even across the table, she could see that his eyelashes matched - and he was clean-shaven; nothing at all like Michael, which she was glad of. He was very young - quite literally young enough to be her son, based on the age of his father. But that didn’t particularly bother Marie. Who wouldn’t want to be desired by someone in their prime?

But that was the crux of it, really. It all came down to him. Immunity or no, she _had_ gleaned his father that morning, and she wouldn’t do something so distasteful as making a move on a man whose family she had just cleaved asunder. No. If he really was drawn to her, he was going to have to be the one to do something about it.

When Seth laid his spoon down in his empty glass, it sounded like the ringing of a bell. “Well,” he said, “I feel both fuller and lighter, which I didn’t know was possible. That was delicious. Thank you.”

Marie smiled. “You’re very welcome,” she said. She scooped up the last morsel from her own glass, then laid her spoon down as well. “I hope I was able to provide you with some solace, at least.”

“Definitely,” he said. He picked up his glass of wine, which was nearly empty at this point, and swirled it around. “Dad always told me that you never know where you'll find comfort in this world, and when it shows up you should take its hand.”

Marie picked up her own glass. “I feel like I’ve come to know him tonight. You gave me a sense of his life and what it meant. Thank you for that.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, finishing their wine, and when Marie laid her empty glass down, Seth wasn’t far behind.

“Well…” Marie said. She could still feel the tension simmering between them, but it seemed likely that it would remain just that. The meal was over, it was time for him to go, and Marie wouldn’t prolong the evening any more than she would proposition him. It was fine. Even if the barrier was insurmountable on this occasion, the fact that she was capable of being attracted to someone again after Michael gave her hope for the future. That was enough.

But then Seth spoke again, and it wasn’t to make his excuses. “Would you like some help clearing up?” he asked. Marie’s eyes met his and found them warm and knowing.

“Alright,” she said, and pushed back her chair. She gathered up the empty wine glasses and dessert cups, then moved to the buffet, where she’d set down the serving dishes after their main. With a little juggling, she managed to pick up one of the side-dishes, then directed Seth toward the other, as well as the larger one that held what remained of the steak. “Can you manage those?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, setting one on top of the other before lifting them both.

“It's just this way,” Marie murmured.

It was a short walk to the kitchen, if somewhat labyrinthine if one didn’t know the house. Marie led Seth through the hallways and into the room, which was well-lit and boasted a large island bench top. 

Setting her armful down, she opened the fridge, clearing a space for the large dish, then turning to take the smaller off his stack. “If you could just slot that right in there,” she said, and held the fridge open while he obeyed. “And this can go beside it.” She handed him the smaller dish as he turned back. When he took it from her, his fingers brushed hers, and when he stepped back after placing it on the shelf he didn’t move very far, so that when Marie closed the fridge, they ended up close enough that she could feel the heat of his body all along her left side.

He was taller than her. She noticed that now. With her gaze level, she found that she was looking at his lips, so she canted her chin and lifted her eyes to meet his. “Right,” she murmured, “I think that’ll do it. The rest can keep, unless you _want_ to help me stack the dishwasher.”

Seth smiled, a tiny animal curl of the lips that made Marie realize that she was still holding the handle of the fridge, because for a moment she gripped it tight, needing the support when her knees wobbled. “I could do that,” Seth whispered, “but if you’re asking me what I _want_...”

“I am,” Marie replied, and clung onto the fridge for a moment more before very deliberately releasing her grip and turning to face him properly. “I am asking that, and I’d like you to answer me very clearly, because I have no intention of doing anything that you haven’t explicitly indicated to me that you _do_ want.”

Seth’s answer was to lift his hand and slide his fingers into her hair, the heel of his palm curving around her chin and tilting her head back. Then his lips were on hers, warm and lingering, and when he pulled back to look at her again his eyebrows quirked in question. “Does that help clarify things?” he asked.

“Mm,” Marie murmured, curling a hand around his bicep, “it’s a start.”

His second kiss was hungrier, fingers sliding even further into her hair to cup the back of her head. Marie’s grip tightened around his arm and her other hand reached out to catch his waist. Seth took a step back and Marie went with him, and somehow by the time the kiss ended she was pressed up against the kitchen island and they were both gasping for air.

“Are there rules,” Seth murmured, when he had enough breath back to speak. “Are there rules about what scythes can do?”

Marie smiled. “Only the commandments,” she said. “They say we can’t get married, or have any sort of relationship that could be construed that way. Anything else is fair game.”

“Good,” he muttered, “because I don’t want to marry you, or kill you, but I would like…” His hand slid over her hip to grip her rump, and Marie hummed out a laugh.

“Isn’t that a game?” she asked. “One that children play? _Fuck, marry, kill_?”

“You said it.” He grinned and kissed her again.

His hands were all over her. His fingers slid through her hair, cupped her cheek, found their way under her robes. She curled her arms around his neck and leaned back against the bench, stretching up to meet his kisses, feeling bright and alive. He mapped out the shape of her, palms sliding over her waist and belly and up to cup her breasts, and how ardent he was, young and vital and eager. It was only when his hips jerked against her and she felt the strength of his erection that she remembered how fast things could go when you were that age, broke off the kiss and tightened her fingers around his shoulder.

“Okay,” she murmured, “I hear your message loud and clear. But I think maybe we should slow down, go upstairs. How would you like to help me get these clothes off?”

Seth’s cheeks were pink and his smile was crooked. His hands stilled against her and he blinked heavily, then gave himself a little shake. “I’d be honored, Your Honor,” he said.

Marie nudged him in the shoulder, slipped out from between the bench and his body. “Come on,” she said, offering him her hand, “and call me Marie.”

Seth didn’t flinch when she led him into her bedroom, and there was no secrecy or guilt when they shed their clothes. He knew exactly who she was and he wanted her anyway, not because of what she was but in spite of it. No agenda made him kiss the ends of her silver hair and mouth his way across her shoulder; he showed no signs of morbid thrill when she pinned him to the bed. Instead, he rose up beneath her and flipped her onto her back, enthusiastic, attentive and thoughtful. But there was far too much of the imp about him to remind her of Michael. He had a playfulness she’d glimpsed at dinner but didn’t feel the full force of until he had her in his hands. He didn’t know her well but he learned quickly, responding to her gasps and whimpers with the ear of someone used to adapting his technique to make an older model purr. In the end, they fit together beautifully, twisting and arching into each other's touch. Marie let him have his head for a while, admiring the curve and flex of his body as he gripped her thigh and pounded her into the mattress, but when he started to shake she pushed him over and rolled on top of him, holding him tight but slowing him down, grasping his chin and feeling him bite down on her fingers as she squeezed and rocked them both to completion.

It was only after, as they were stretched out beside each other breathless and sweaty, that Seth’s emotions came back. Marie’s arm was flung up over her head and she was luxuriating in the darkness behind her eyelids when she heard him make a funny sound, turned her head to see his eyes streaming with silent tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered when he realized she’d noticed, voice thick with embarrassment. “It’s not you, I promise. I’m just suddenly…” He couldn’t seem to articulate the rest of the sentence, gave a slightly hysterical laugh and scrubbed the tears out of his eyes. “I can’t - ridiculous - you’re amazing and I’m… _Fuck_. It’s not you. It’s not you.”

“It’s alright.” Marie smiled, feeling a swell of affection for him, for his embarrassment and his vulnerability. “Grief is funny that way. It’s perfectly normal to be weird.” He laughed again through his tears and she rolled toward him, curling herself around him and letting him bury his face in her hair. She stroked the back of his head and held him fast, and he trembled against her but he let himself grieve.

“What happens now?” he asked, when he’d eventually quieted and pulled back to face her. “What do I do now?”

Marie wasn’t entirely sure whether the question was existential or practical, but she certainly wasn’t qualified for the former. Cupping his cheek, she kissed him gently. “Stay,” she whispered. “This place is more than large enough to have you for the night. Will you ask the Thunderhead to turn out the lights?”

“Okay,” he whispered, and did.

* * *

Seth was gone when Marie awoke, though she had a vague memory of him whispering a goodbye in the early hours of the morning. She seemed to recall him saying something about work, which in her waking state seemed somewhat tenuous, but whether the commitment was real or fictional, she couldn’t blame him. Even alone, her morning was pleasant - she woke to the delightful strains and aches that settled into one’s muscles in the aftermath of sex, and after a warm shower she toasted waffles and brewed coffee and sat on the terrace to eat. The weather was fine and her mood was light; her solitude felt comfortable and right.

Then, in the afternoon, her doorbell rang.

“I have a delivery here for Scythe Curie,” said the courier. “If you could just sign here, Your Honor.” He held out a tablet and stylus to her, and, baffled but curious, she scrawled her name. The man’s white truck was parked in her drive, but he wasn’t holding a box, or even a bouquet of flowers.

“What delivery?” she asked.

As soon as she handed the tablet back, the man turned and called out to someone she couldn’t see. “Right, Terry! Back it out!” A motor roared to life, and a moment later the second man was reversing a Porsche out of the back of the truck. It was a coupe, maybe early 21st Century, shiny red and gleaming.

“Oh,” said the courier, patting his pockets until he found a white envelope and pulled it out. “Mr. Gettinger also asked me to give you this.” He handed her the missive.

The one called Terry pulled the car up alongside the truck, killed the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. He closed the door, keys jangling in his hand, then approached and handed them to Marie.

“Right,” said the first courier. “Enjoy your new car, Your Honor. Have a great day.”

And before Marie could even form a sentence to thank them, they were back in their truck, reversing, and gone.

Marie stared at the car in wonderment. The keys tinkled in her hand. She gave a tiny, disbelieving laugh, then finally managed to tear her eyes away from the car long enough to open the note.

 _Marie_ , it read, _A woman as singular as you deserves a car that is equally unique. I hope that you find the color to your liking - after our conversation last night I thought it best not to have it sprayed lavender. My everlasting thanks for the meal, and for the solace that you provided. Best, Seth._

Marie bit her lip, blinking back the tears that sprang to her eyes. The car was beautiful, and the evidence that she had managed to ease Seth’s suffering was… Her chest felt tight in a way she didn't even have a word for. She knew that particular brand of solace wouldn't work with every family member of someone she gleaned, but still. It was a balm to her soul.

She took the car for a spin right then and there.

  


  


~*~

“Scythe Curie?” Citra prompted, breaking into Marie’s reverie.

Marie startled, crashing abruptly back into the present, looking up into Citra's expectant face and realizing that she must have been silent for some time. She gave herself a shake to dispel the tendrils of memory, laid down the pen that was still in her hand. She would have to finish her journal entry for the day later.

"Sorry, Citra," she said, "I got a little lost in my memory, there. You'll find it happens to you, too, when you have as much history as I do. But I...well. Scythes and sex, you're right; it's complicated. There are people who will offer themselves up to you because they want something from you, and there are people who will be drawn to you because you represent danger and they like it. You'll have to feel that out for yourself - some scythes are quite comfortable exchanging immunity for favors, and some find the idea repellent." Citra's lip curled up in disgust, making it quite clear what her opinion was. Marie agreed with her, but she found that she was a little bit afraid of that ruthless teenage morality when it came to other matters, so she considered her next words carefully.

"The ones who are attracted to what you are can be very alluring; you just have to work out whether you can indulge them while remaining true to your principles. I wouldn't judge anyone for the choices they make, there, and I would suggest that you don't either, at least not until you've lived it." 

It seemed to work. She could see Citra's mind working, could see the expression on her face shifting from distaste to thoughtful consideration. Citra had come a long way in the last two months, and Marie was confident that she would make a respectable scythe, just as long as she learned to employ her temper and sharp mind tactically.

"Where we have to be really careful," Marie continued, "is when people are scared of us. You may well meet people who seem perfectly amicable, who you think you're getting to know, but who are actually afraid to refuse you."

"Has that happened to you?" Citra asked.

"I've been lucky," Marie admitted. "The only time I found myself in a situation that could have gone that way, the person I was with had the presence of mind to make her feelings known, and that was it."

Citra nodded emphatically, wide-eyed with understanding, but then Marie could see the wheels ticking in her head again, and a small smile curled up her lips. "Her?" she asked quietly.

Marie smiled. "Yes, Citra. Some of my lovers - or not-lovers, in that case - have been women. That's hardly the most important thing to take away from that story, though - the point is that we have to be diligent in our communication and absolutely aware of our power at all times. It isn't easy."

"Right," Citra said, "yeah." 

"And it might seem like other scythes are the best option, with those choices - we are equals, at least - but it can be dangerous. Some of us manage it quite well, but others. Well. There have been times when certain scythes got carried away." Marie felt her heart flutter in her chest, speeding up unbidden, but she managed to hold her expression steady. 

"What happened to them?" Citra asked.

Marie smiled wryly. "Nothing good."

Citra nodded again, glancing down at the coffee table where all her books were spread out. Her expression was somewhat pained - no doubt thinking of the predicament she was in, the cruel and unique circumstances of her situation. There was no possibility of an ordinary life for Citra, and Marie suddenly felt terrible for being so brutally honest. She wondered how it was that Michael had managed to do this so many times, what strategies he used to ease his juniors into their new lives. 

"It's not all doom and gloom, I promise," she said gently, and Citra looked up again. "Even some of the experiences you might not choose again are fantastic at the time, and every now and then the stars will align and you'll meet someone whose desires align perfectly with yours. I've made some painful mistakes over the years, but…" She paused, thinking back over the memories this conversation had dredged up. Each moment had taught her something new - about herself, about how to communicate and read people, about love, or desire, or vulnerability. She knew she couldn't possibly impart that wisdom to Citra - it had to be lived. "I wouldn't change the experiences I've had, and I hope one day you'll be able to say the same. It's a complicated life, being a scythe, but it's worthy."

Citra smiled, then, a genuine smile that showed the dimple on her chin. The look in her eyes turned from hesitant to accepting. "I'm going to do my best to succeed, you know, even if it is complicated."

“I have every confidence in you," Marie assured. Phew. Responsible Mentor moves accomplished, she couldn't resist having a little fun. "One more thing," she said, and felt the smile twisting her mouth up; "when your path seems to be littered with nothing but sycophants and idiots and there's no one worthwhile to take to bed, remember that there's no commandment against battery-powered companionship, and people _will_ give us gifts."

And Citra cringed in the most teenaged way possible, covering her face and bursting into giggles. Marie laughed too, felt it bubble up mellow and warm, and it felt good. She meant it, she realised, and she hadn't known until she'd said it that she would: she didn't regret her experiences, not even the painful ones, and watching Citra giggle uncontrollably, glowing with her youth and her own complexity, she knew she wouldn't regret taking on an apprentice either.


End file.
